


One

by IMakeMyselfLol, wtsnhlms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Christmas, Holmes Brothers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, brief mention of jolto, in the past, they're clueless as hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5645935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMakeMyselfLol/pseuds/IMakeMyselfLol, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtsnhlms/pseuds/wtsnhlms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate first meeting/Soulmates AU.</p><p> <i>"God that would be so bloody typical, he wanted to laugh, and a few choked giggles did escape him, manic and wrong bursting from his lips. Spend your whole life fighting to make sure you never have to spend your life in the chokehold (figurative and literal) of a relationship with an addict and then suddenly you discover that you're destined to be with one anyway. That sounded about right for his luck."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's POV

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collab between me (gloriouscumberbatch) and IMakeMyselfLol (matchingbulletwounds) for The Ultimate Johnlock Challenge: Winter Holidays challenge 1 on tumblr, hope you enjoy! :)

_“Paging Doctor Watson to room 2! Doctor Watson to room 2, stat!”_

Ever alert, John strode into the common corridor of the A&E at St Bart’s and nudged his way past the bustling nurses into room two. The nurse at the head of the bed was already in the process of intubating the collapsed patient when she promptly informed the doctor of the patient’s condition.

“Looks like an OD, doc. Patient is in his late-20s, found seizing up in an alleyway nearby. Pulse is there but not as strong as I’d like it to be. The low blood pressure and constricted pupils indicate opioid abuse.” 

“Once the patient is stabilised, I want a tox screen ordered and we need his stomach pumped,” John spoke, checking on the patient’s wavering vitals. Wasting no time in trying to save this young man’s life, John set to work. It wasn't long before he had the patient wheeled into the ICU. 

Before he left to get the appropriate tests ordered, John glanced down at the chart hanging on the edge of the hospital bed, then back up to have a proper look at the patient lying prone upon it. _Still so young_ , John mused. The man looked impossibly young under the dim lights of the ICU ward; a head full of unruly dark hair matted with sweat and long, pale limbs peeking out from under the hospital-issued blanket. The face, John couldn't help noticing, was full of calm. 

All in all, another bright young soul lost to the toxic highs of substance abuse. 

John could only shake his head minutely. The feeling of seeing someone dear lose themselves in a poisonous lifestyle only struck too close to home, with him having an older sister who preferred to drink herself into a stupor every other night. The phrase ‘you can't save them all’ whirled around in his mind, always did when these types of cases came along - he couldn't help thinking first of Harry and his inability to change her and then of the countless other lives he'd witnessed be destroyed, or worse, ended, by addiction. This man was just a few of years younger than he was, and even though he was used to this story, it left him feeling a little heavier as he walked away, leaving instructions to call him when (it was _if_ really and the nurses had given him a round of sympathetic smiles at his optimism) there was any next of kin to be found. 

The graveyard shift was generally a nightmare, but during the lulls in crises the need for rest of any kind took precedence over pretty much everything else. John had spent many a night sitting in dingy back offices asleep in chairs; his skill for sleeping in any position including, on one memorable occasion, standing up, was well known, which was probably why people didn't question his overtaking their office chairs. Those are the nights he can get away, collect his thoughts, refocus for a bit and just let the trials of the day be processed - good and bad alike. 

There are nights that stick out so vividly in his memory that sometimes John has to wonder at his brain and the information it deems important when he does this: horrifying accidents, patients dying on his watch, children DOA - all normal for the job according to everyone he's talked to.   
It was the other stuff that was strange, like the distinctive smell of cologne from Mr Hartley who'd had a triple bypass and hadn't even been his patient, or the fact that Mrs Davis during her stay had worn exclusively navy socks, and now apparently, the contrast of dark curls and pale skin had made the collection. He didn't even know the poor bugger's name, John mused as he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

“Doctor Watson?” A timid but familiar voice called to him and he was instantly awake, fully alert in milliseconds. Mary, the newest addition to the on call nursing team, smiled at him from the doorway.   
“Sorry to wake you, but your rounds start in about ten minutes and the OD patient in ICU has been ID’d, last I heard Mr Holmes is waking up so I thought you might like to head there first? His next of kin still can't be contacted.” She didn't wait for a response before rushing off with a grin, and John was quickly up and out too, anxious to see what type of man this Mr Holmes was.

Apparently, he was a knobhead. At least that was the teary eyed warning he'd been given before walking into the ward where Mr Holmes lay, incredibly alert for someone whose heart had stopped the night before, and by the looks of him, not very happy to be there. Joy.

As soon as John had started walking in his direction, Mr Holmes’ eyes had locked on him, a piercing gaze that felt like it was looking to the very core of him. It was a bit disconcerting, but John soldiered on and came to a stop at the end of the bed.

“Good to see you wide awake, Mr-” John started, only to be find himself on the receiving end of a disgruntled hmph from the other man. 

“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? Invalided army doctor, prefers to spend nights in not-so-comfy hospital chairs rather than back at your own apartment, albeit one you dislike at best; you have an elder brother who’s drinking his life away and, judging by your frown lines, still not entirely in control of your psychosomatic limp. No, don’t look at me like that, the limp is only gone now when you’re doing the night shift. Evidently you still miss the desert grit and violence. Now be a dear and run along like the rest of your incompetent team. While you’re at it, get me my release papers,” his patient shot back.

 _Well. This introduction is surely one for the books. That was_ \- “amazing”, John breathed. “I’m Doctor Watson. You can call me John, and unless you’ve been shadowing me for the past year, I’d very much like to know how you knew all that about me. Your name’s Sherlock, yes?”

His patient could only glare back at him, clearly unnerved at having not scared this particular person away with his deductions where others were quick to flee before he could cause any further emotional harm. The man’s mouth twitched a bit at the corner but he promptly cleared his face of all emotion and snorted haughtily. 

“Obviously. The haircut, the instinctual return to parade rest, and of course your gait - all signs pointing towards your previous military career and current limping problem. There are two stains on your sleeve: one from coffee and the other from spending the night with your arms resting on a pile of papers - probably charts, most likely someone else's because you'd never leave yours lying about, again military training dies hard - and the stiffness of your neck and… left shoulder? tell me that you spent the night in a chair rather than your apartment, and anyone who likes their home would go to it when they could don't you think? Which leaves us with the invalided part and really, all that on top of getting my discharge papers? I think it's obvious enough as it is by the look on your face that you have quite enough to be getting on with already, don’t you think?” The man - _Sherlock_ \- finished with a click of his tongue.

John was speechless. It was clear he was a bit of a git, and difficult as all hell but he had a gift, something completely extraordinary hiding within that too thin frame. Sherlock Holmes could do, probably, anything he set his mind to. Which begged the question what on earth was a man like this, so full of intelligence and insight and life doing in here half dead? “Truly extraordinary though you may be Mr Holme-” Sherlock interrupted.

“Sherlock. My father was Mr Holmes.” 

John rolled his eyes and continued, though he couldn't help but amend his words. “OK, Sherlock then, amazing you may well be: invincible you are not. I can't let you go home without doing a full work up, not to mention the reason you were brought for in the first place. You came in on the verge of death, Sherlock, and you're mistaken if you think I'd let you off so soon. I'm here to help you but it will not speed up your getting out of here if you continue berating my staff like that.” John was used to difficult patients but this one came across a wee bit eccentric; he had to tread carefully with Sherlock. 

“Well I can't just turn it off and on like a tap,” was all John heard from his patient before Sherlock gave an indignant huff and turned his back to the doctor. 

_Great. A git AND a child._ But God help him, John Watson was starting to really like Sherlock Holmes. 

\---

John decided to return to his apartment early the next morning and, while he was at it, retrieved a couple of clean shirts to keep in the hospital. During the short walk back to the hospital, John gathered his thoughts. 

He wondered about how long he expected himself to keep up this image of a stable, focused career man. As a child, he envisioned going out into the field and saving lives. He envisioned a long, satisfying life spent healing wounds and improving quality of life for others. What he didn't envision though, was constantly being on the receiving end of his father’s abusive habits at an early age. 

His mother was the first to go. No note, not even a goodbye, and she was up and gone one random morning. John wasn't sure if his mother ever loved he and his sister like he thought she did, if it was that quick for her to abandon them. By that point of time, Harry had already been a lost cause, caught dabbling in underage drinking. She would be gone from home days at a time, leaving John to bear the brunt of his father's frustrated, drunken antics. 

John was determined to escape the poisonous atmosphere of home, if he could even call it that, so he worked his arse off with small jobs and clinched a scholarship to medical school. John only had himself to fend for when young, so he held his head high and joined the RAMC. If there was one thing he learned from his doomed relationship with his father, it's that he had a penchant of focusing on making things right whilst under duress. 

Becoming an army doctor AND fully-trained combatant was just the next logical step to make. The adrenaline and near constant determination to keep his fellow soldiers and himself alive was what kept him moving forward. One bone-shattering sniper bullet to the shoulder later, and he was back in London on a meagre pension. Yes, working the graveyard shift provided the adrenaline but it was nowhere near the stinging burn of the sun on his bare neck and the deafening volley of machine gun bullets all around him. 

To say he was disappointed in his current situation was an understatement. “I'm meant for greater things yet here I am rotting away with not even a partner to keep me grounded, ” John thought sadly. Most of his acquaintances already found their other halves, but apparently no one wanted a broken, limping ex-soldier. Age was also fast catching up with him. What luck. 

He strode through the hospital entrance, up to the locker room to deposit his clean clothes and went straight to the nurses’ station to be updated on his patients’ progress. 

If he was honest, he kind of wished he hadn't. Three nurses were crying, another one trying desperately to console them, and if he wasn't mistaken, the raised voices coming from down the ward sounded an awful lot like Sherlock and Mary’s. _Wonderful_. 

“Paula, can you maybe tell me what… all this, is about?” he asked hesitantly. Paula gave him a tight smile as she rubbed the back of her colleagues.

“Well, from what I can gather, Mr Holmes said he was bored and he wasn't best pleased with Amy when she told him he couldn't go home and he said some right awful stuff about her and her boyfriend, and then Sarah and Marie overheard and went over to help and got the same treatment. But I don't know really, hard to hear with all the sobbing and what not.” John sighed heavily.

“Right. Thanks Paula, I'll go and see what I can do.” He turned to walk away and heard her shout after him.

“Mind you tell the both of ‘em to ruddy well keep it down, this is a hospital not a pub!” 

To say the sight that greeted him was surprising would be a lie. Somehow even after one brief not-quite-conversation with the man, John felt he knew him well enough to know that this was a regular occurrence for Sherlock; _this_ being having an irate woman yelling at him while he smirked and occasionally interjected with incredibly intimate details about her life. 

“OK.” John barked at them both and silence, shocked and sudden, fell. He didn't feel the need to raise his voice again. “Ok. Mary, maybe you should go and take a break for a few minutes, I can handle it from here.” With a glare at Sherlock who wiggled his fingers in a taunting wave, Mary stormed out of the room. Which left himself, Sherlock, and about six other patients in various states of waking alone together. As soon as Mary had disappeared from view, John wheeled around on Sherlock. 

“Mind explaining to me why three quarters of my nursing staff are in tears right now Sherlock? Because I’m having a hard time understanding why you felt the need to antagonize the people that are trying to help you.” Sherlock scowled up at him and gestured at the mainly unconscious patients surrounding him.

“Look at this. Look at them all, lying there utterly placid. I can't-” He let out a frustrated groan and his hands migrated to his hair, pulling at it fiercely. John winced for him as he continued. “I can't take it! My mind is like an engine spinning out of control without anything to fuel it, I'm so bored I may actually resort to murdering someone _myself_ just for something to do! You don't understand what it's like! Without the cocaine, without proper stimulation I'm torn apart from the inside out, and these people that are _helping_ me don't seem to grasp the severity of what I am describing so I showed them exactly what I meant when I said that I was being torn apart. For me, it's my mind trying to self combust, for them it's their innermost secrets, fears and desires that tear them apart, and it was all too easy to show them those. It's not my fault the other three got involved - and it gave me something to do.” Sherlock stared defiantly up at him, his jaw set but his hands shaking and John was mad at him yeah, but he was also overwhelmingly sad for the life he must lead. If the only thing that will quiet your mind down is drugs or spouting people’s inner secrets to the world, which one should you choose? Either way someone gets hurt. 

And right now, looking down at the paper thin fragility of a man going out of his mind without a single person in his corner, John couldn't help but want to make him feel better. “Ok.” He said simply, watching as Sherlock's eyes widened in shock.

“OK? That's really all you have to say?” 

John shrugged with a half smile. “I mean, I would prefer if you maybe hadn't done it but I understand why you did so, yeah, OK. Maybe I can help you out in some way- what do you think would be a good solution? Keeping in mind that you do have to stay until the 26th at least. I could have you moved to a private room if you like?”   
For a long while Sherlock simply lay there, staring up at him with confusion written across his face. It was kind of endearing, and a little bit sad too. John couldn't help but wonder how that little kindness, the type he would show most decent people, was so shocking to Sherlock. Sherlock cleared his throat and seemed to snap back into himself. 

“Right um, yes that, that would be… good. If you could get me my phone too that would be… there's an urgent text that I need to send and I can't seem to get anyone to bring mine to me so…” Sherlock's eyes tracked his hand as it reached into the pocket of his trousers and lifted out his phone. 

“Use mine, it might take me a little while to get yours and you said urgent so. Here you go. Meanwhile I'll see that your new room will be ready for you tonight. I'll be right back,” John said with a small smile. Back at the nurses’ station, John approached Paula and requested that Mr Holmes be moved to a private room, “to keep disruptions to other patients at a minimum”. Just before he stepped across the threshold to Sherlock's current room, he stopped dead in his tracks. 

Sherlock was as still as a statue. John's phone in his left hand, and the other grasping the bedsheets, Sherlock was staring out the window. John followed his gaze to settle on the view beyond the paneled glass. The snowfall was starting to pick up, an endless sheet of white against the muted skylights of the rooftops of central London. Slowly, the man's right hand shifted to brush over the inside of his left elbow. Silhouetted against the windows, Sherlock cut a lonely figure. 

John took measured steps towards Sherlock's left flank. Reaching out, he laid a gentle hand on the man's shoulder, which broke Sherlock out of his reverie. 

“Do you have any family, friends, maybe, that I can contact on your behalf?” John asked. 

“I don't have friends,” was what he got in reply. The tone was resigned, almost regretful. 

Taking that as a sign that anything to do with family may be an unwelcome discussion, John nodded and said nothing more. As Sherlock turned to hand the phone back to John, the scattered moonlight streaming through the window provided enough illumination for John to catch sight of Sherlock's left elbow. 

What he saw there made him gasp. 

No, it wasn't the multiple scars bearing evidence of a needle piercing skin to satisfy an unhealthy addiction, it was the faint shimmering glow of a soulmate mark just underneath the skin. Sherlock's mark contained the following numbers: _070781_.

7th of July, 1981.

John knew that date all too well. Of course he did. 

It was his own date of birth. 

Sucking in a deep breath, John spun on his heels and abruptly left the room. 

He'd swear he could feel Sherlock's puzzled gaze on the back of his head as he fled. Walking briskly towards the empty waiting room at the end of the corridor, he then slumped heavily into a chair. 

Needless to say, John Watson was halfway between a panic attack and brushing it off completely. On the one hand, wouldn't it be _just_ like him to find his soulmate in the bloody A &E? He’d been drawn to Sherlock from that first moment, but what the hell was he supposed to do with the knowledge that they might be (probably were) soulmates? 

It almost made sense. It explained the brief flare of pain that shot down John’s right shoulder just before he heard the call over the PA system that led him to Sherlock Holmes. The soulmate mark worked in such a way that if one’s intended life partner was dying, the skin around his or her own mark would redden and get inflamed, and in the unfortunate circumstance that said life partner passes away, the numbers on the arm would lose its silver glow and rise on the skin to settle like a permanent scar -- a tattoo; an angry reminder that any subsequent romantic partners would pale in comparison to the lost soulmate and never be fully compatible. Real life couldn’t be any more sadistic. _What a way to encourage monogamy_ , John thought grimly.

Besides, the numbers on your arm would appear meaningless, jumbled up except when laid eyes upon by your intended. If seen by the right person, he or she would see his date of birth. John had seen his on Sherlock’s arm. The thing is, he had no way of knowing if the numbers were in their original jumbled mess and just happened to say _070781_ or if Sherlock really was his soulmate. Either way, he would not know for certain unless he let Sherlock see the numbers on John’s own arm.

After Sholto the idea of soulmates had seemed… off putting. What did it matter if your dates didn’t match up if _you_ did? Apparently it did matter, the major had lost all interest in John when he’d stumbled in, arm searing in unbearable agony, to find his destiny was lying dead on John's operating table. Ironically, Jack had only been two days younger than him. _Two_ paltry days in the difference. 

Somehow one rough and soul destroying midnight fuck, despair dripping in the spaces between their bodies (so much further _apart_ than before) against the wall of the canteen a few hours later equated to a goodbye. It had, in a way, been a goodbye. John had been shot the next week and James had to deal with his grief in the only way he knew how - fighting harder. John, at least, understood that.

He never did say goodbye. John was back in London before he heard of him again and even then it was nothing, nothing at all compared to what they had shared under the desert sky. Being “Soulmates” was unimportant. He'd learnt that the hard way - Domestic abuse, divorce, assault , none of the issues went away just because of a few numbers on your arms matching up. They didn't stop his father from lashing out beatings when he got home from the pub, no matter how certain his Mum had been that every time would be the last, hadn't stopped his heart from beating out of his chest with love for someone who wasn't his soulmate (but _God_ he could have been). What mattered was compatibility, attraction, _love_ even. No numbers could give that to you, no matter how much you wish they would.

He'd given up on the idea of finding a soulmate after James and here he was, having had one dropped into his lap like it was nothing, an addict to boot, just like his Mum's. God that would be so bloody typical, he wanted to laugh, and a few choked giggles did escape him, manic and wrong bursting from his lips. Spend your whole life fighting to make sure you never have to spend your life in the chokehold (figurative and literal) of a relationship with an addict and then suddenly you discover that you're destined to be with one anyway. That sounded about right for his luck. 

_But then_ , the logical part of him remarked quietly, _there is always the chance you’re wrong_ , and he'd seen that happen enough times, people jumping the gun because they think they're soulmates and discovering much to their dismay that they were wrong. Tens of thousands of people are born everyday. The numbers might be jumbled still. He could be wrong.

The thing that threw him the most was that he wasn't sure he wanted to be, and that was terrifying. He'd known this madman all of two full days and already he'd managed to make John feel _something_ for him, enough that he was seriously considering the idea of telling him that they, as far as John could tell, were soulmates.

One thing was for certain: He couldn't treat Sherlock any more.


	2. Sherlock's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes made are our own!

There were three crucial details about which Sherlock was completely certain. The first: that the Yard were utterly useless when it came to catching criminals, even when you gave them all the necessary information to do so. He'd have to get on the case himself somehow before they let this smuggler slip away. The second: Nurse Mary was harbouring feelings of an amorous inclination towards John and hoped very much that his thoughts were in line with hers. This thought left him in a foul humour every time it crossed his mind for some reason, but possibly related to the third, and in his opinion at the moment, most important point: John Watson was avoiding him, and he had no idea why.

The good doctor -in all honesty, the only doctor he could stand to have around- had abruptly left his bedside without a word the other day. That same night, Sherlock was moved into a private room on another floor, left alone to sound his frustrations into the still, lonely air. 

There was something bothering Doctor Watson enough to have stopped checking up on him, and instead, Doctor Stamford took his place. Mike Stamford wasn’t as much of an idiot as the rest of the people he knew, but still, he wasn’t John Watson.

Sherlock was starting to feel muddled about how he felt about the ex-army doctor.

John was _different_ , that’s all there is to it. When Sherlock had put up his shields and deduced John all the way to his toes that first meeting, the doctor did not make so much as a twitch. He certainly did not mouth Sherlock off and flip him the middle finger or run off crying hysterically like at least 90% of the souls who were unfortunate enough to come his way in the past. 

Maybe Sherlock felt a little bit awed at how John instead did what was most unexpected of him, uttering a single word - “amazing” - and instead leaving Sherlock the dumbstruck one of the two. Sherlock almost preened under the kind words.

John Watson is a mystery just waiting to be unravelled, Sherlock concluded.

Meanwhile he was in his hospital bed, and starting to feel the telltale signs of withdrawal. It had been almost 72 hours since he crashed and he was starting to feel more agitated by the minute. The few times he had succumbed to sleep were cut short by haunting dreams that left him soaked waist-up. 

During one of those times, he had awoken to a familiar silhouette hovering just outside his hospital room door. He could just make out the shadow of a limb stretched out as if to push the door open but the hand and its owner would bade a hasty retreat once Sherlock’s breaths had evened out. 

Sherlock was left wondering what John would have done if he had chosen to come in. Would he have offered comfort? If so, just why would he want to do so? It was really quite obvious that Sherlock was not the kind to person to seek out another’s presence in times of distress. What made John think Sherlock would appreciate the concern? 

Deep in thought, Sherlock did not notice when Doctor Stamford came in, clipboard in hand. “How are we doing today, Mr Holmes?” he asked, drifting over to the monitors on Sherlock's left to make notes. 

“Fine. Right as rain. Now if you'd kindly sign off my release papers, I'd be out of your hair before you know it.” Sherlock huffed. 

“Ah. John wasn't kidding about you. I'm afraid I can't do that as of yet, young man. An overdose is not something you can pretend never happened,” the doctor said. 

“What did John say about me?” Sherlock shot him one of his _answer-my-question-before-I-tear-your-life-apart_ smiles.

“That he's never come across someone like you before. Nothing for ye to worry about. Alrighty then. The drug should be mostly out of your system by no-”

“I want to see him. Why did he request for you to take over as my attending physician?” Sherlock probed, eyes darting towards the windows overlooking the corridor outside, almost as if he was willing John Watson to walk by. 

“I'm not at liberty to tell you but I could drop him a note to pop in when he has a minute to spare. That enough to keep you here for at least a day more?”

Sherlock could only roll his eyes. He wanted out of the hospital as soon as possible but he did not like leaving any questions he had unanswered. With a quick nod, Doctor Stamford left Sherlock alone once more. 

\---

That night, Sherlock was once again caught in the throes of a seemingly endless dream. He could not make out much of what was happening in his subconscious but what he could recognize out of the storm of sensations was the slow, familiar clouding of his mind coupled with the torturously burning aching need to re-introduce cocaine into his system. His skin prickled, his arms felt glued to his sides. He could hear a persistent ringing sound in his head and if only he could just lift his arms a little bit, he was desperate to make the ringing stop.

Sherlock, when faced with these dreams, could do nothing but wait out the agony. If he happened to be in a drug den when the dreams attack, the first thing he’d do upon awakening is to rummage through what little possessions he had with him at that time and proceed to jam the solution into the hollow of his elbow once more, just so he’d soothe the ache and bid a temporary, if needed, goodbye to the howling tempest that was his brain. 

Tonight however, he is alone on his hospital bed, with nothing on hand to alleviate the searing pain in his head. Just when Sherlock thought he would be trapped in this bottomless pit between wakefulness and sleep, he could feel a whisper of foreign fingertips on his left arm and a warm, gentle hand sweeping across the curls spilling onto his forehead.

“Sherlock.” 

John. John Watson was here.

Sherlock’s mind cleared, and he opened his eyes. He tilted his head to the left to take in John’s hesitant form, his hand still outstretched from where he had touched Sherlock's forehead. 

“You're burning up. Are you alright?” John asked, genuine concern etched on his face. “You've not been sleeping well.”

“How kind of you to notice,” Sherlock almost hissed back. 

John heaved a heavy sigh. “Sherlock. Why can't you let someone else take care of you for once? Do enlighten me. You've chased everyone else away when they showed the slightest intention to help you.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to focus on the doctor's face. He took the chance to map out the frown lines on John's forehead, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. In the dim lighting of the room, Sherlock could read everything about John and yet still not make sense of the man before him. 

It was almost a full minute before Sherlock could bring himself to continue the conversation. 

“I'm a sociopath. According to some people, I'm statistically more likely to kill someone than befriend them. You're welcome to enquire with Scotland Yard if you're starting to worry that I'm more than just a pitiful drug addict, by the way. You have trust issues with people of my kind, or generally, addicts, after all.”

“Sociopath eh? What else do you do when you're not running around shooting up?” John said almost casually, folding his arms. 

_The shields are up_ , Sherlock observed. 

“I solve crimes for Scotland Yard. I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me,” Sherlock said smoothly. 

Sherlock could make out the telltale raise of an eyebrow before John spoke. 

“So if you're as much as a genius as I think you are, and trust me I know if your deduction about me when we first met was anything to go by -- then how did you manage to land yourself in this state? Forgive me if I can't quite figure out how an intelligent man like you could be stuck in hospital from a near-fatal overdose.” John had at this point pulled up a chair and settled in at Sherlock's bedside. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow.

“I’ve got all night.”

“Look. What are you still doing here? Don’t you have other patients to look after, do what you do best?”

“Did I hear Stamford wrongly when he told me you wanted to see me? You asked for me, so here I am.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock huffed before turning to bury his face into his pillow. “I changed my mind. I don’t want you here unless you have my release papers on hand. Off you go!” 

Sherlock could hear John rubbing his face in frustration. “Why are you being such an arse? I’m a doctor, alright, I have a tight schedule so when I’m informed that one of my patients wishes to see me, I actually took a break to see said patient, only to then be kicked out. I only have so much patience, Sherlock, and if my actually paying attention to you is only going to prove to be a waste of time, then you can kindly piss off, take a minute and figure out what exactly it is you wish to accomplish from your time here. I will now go to treat patients who actually wish to be taken care of,” was everything he heard before John stormed out of the room. 

Sherlock all but screamed his frustration into the now empty room. It had been too dark to really get the nuances of John's ever changing expressions , but the fact was that Sherlock knew the standoffish, abrupt pattern of speech the doctor had adopted was not normal. Something - outside of Sherlock being his usual stubborn self - had upset him. Something to do with Sherlock certainly, but not to do with his request to see him. In fact, Sherlock smirked, the almost imperceptible sigh of relief that John had emitted when he closed the door on the way into the room suggested the opposite. The tension that had remained in his muscles, standing and poised to fight or flee added a conflicting layer to the thing, but nothing that couldn't be worked out by a few minutes of logical thought. 

He had seemed most upset, most riled by (and this was only slightly surprising) the idea that Sherlock was in the hospital in the first place, that in his … pastime he was somehow diminishing his own worth. But why should Sherlock's habits bother him so severely? He’d known what they were before he'd known Sherlock's name, to be upset by them now was frankly absurd and more than a little bit confusing. Why did he _care_?

It was with this thought rushing around his head on a loop, like a toy car on a racetrack, that Sherlock found sleep, restless and dream filled though it was, not all of them were unpleasant, the memory of John's hand drifting across his forehead an anchor in the dark. 

\---

The hours passed in the morning with barely a twitch from Sherlock. Any food left by the bedside went untouched and any attempt at conversation by the nurses, ignored. “ _This one's a lost cause_ ,” Sherlock had caught amongst the hushed whispers between the staff and even medical students passing through the ward. “ _Don't mind him, he's a bit of a freak_ ,” was heard from nurse Amy, one of the unlucky ones to have encountered Sherlock on the night he was brought in. 

Sherlock may be numb to the insults he was bound to receive on a daily basis, but he would only be kidding himself if he claimed those words did not hurt him one bit. His head was starting to throb again. The next time the door to his room opened, it was accompanied by the telltale _tap-tap-tap_ of an umbrella and the familiar gait of an unwanted visitor. 

“Piss off, Mycroft,” came the standard reply. What else was there to say to a meddlesome elder brother? 

“Getting acquainted with the luxury of a hospital bed again, brother dear? Do they provide complimentary tea and biscuits as well?” Mycroft smirked. 

“Still thinking about food, Mycroft?”

“How could I not, now that Mummy has reminded me to make sure you’ll be home for Christmas dinner. I hear the decorations are to be especially lovely this year.”

“Tell her I’m busy with a case. I don’t have the time.”

“Ah yes. Busy assessing the therapeutic half-life of cocaine, you mean? Need I remind you that she is not aware of the other hobby you indulge in besides your consulting duties?” Mycroft scoffed.

Sherlock could only glare at him. There were a million other things he would rather be doing at that moment, and conversing with his brother was not one of them. Neither was wasting his life away confined to a hospital bed. He had a case to investigate and suspects to tail. He was simply not fond of asking his brother for help, but needs must, and he simply had to get out of the hospital as soon as possible. 

“Fine. I’ll….I’ll go. But only on the condition that you facilitate my release out of here, and quite quickly. I have somewhere to be by midnight tonight,” Sherlock said.

“And what does your doctor have to say about that?”

“John would gladly have me out of his hair.” It took a split second for Sherlock to realise what he had just said. _Dammit_.

“My, my. Getting ahead of ourselves, are we? Already on first name basis with the doctor -- whom you may have just remembered -- is not actually _your_ doctor.” Another smirk. “What is it about the decorated ex-soldier that has you so frazzled, brother dear? Is that the first signs of sentiment I see over the man who saved your life, or is it just the cocaine talking? God forbid I let my compromised baby brother back out onto the streets without the highest assurances that he is well and truly recovered.” Mycroft crossed his ankles and leant against his umbrella, dropping a bag undoubtedly containing a change of clothes at Sherlock's feet.

Sherlock was quick to inwardly deny that he had let an ordinary being like John Watson throw him off the loop. The two of them had barely interacted, after all. Sherlock would normally flag boring individuals and mundane interactions as _irrelevant_ and erase them from his mind palace promptly. The ex-army doctor had however beaten all odds and was now a constant presence in his head, buzzing around like a bee dodging swats of an irritated hand.

Sherlock needed to get away, and quick. He could afford no more distractions, not when the Work was calling out to him once more. “Oh please,” he trained his gaze on Mycroft. “I needed the push to figure out how to work the case, and now I’ve got it. I’m fine now. I can handle myself.” If Mycroft had noticed how Sherlock blatantly ignored any of his previous questions, he did not bring it up. He simply straightened his posture, gave a minute nod, and with a cursory flick of his umbrella, was out the door.

Settling back onto the reclining bed, Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, deciding to wait out his release from the hospital by running through the details of the ongoing case once again. He had been working the case for a week. It had appeared to be your average double murder; a five, at most, Sherlock had commented that first time Lestrade approached him -- hardly worth Sherlock’s time -- until one thing led to another, and Sherlock found himself struggling to track the movements of a smuggling ring responsible for a string of other crimes including kidnappings, extortion, money laundering and, if Sherlock was correct, several counts of human trafficking and prostitution. This all on top of their more mundane smuggling efforts and the murder of two of their trafficked workers had Sherlock with his hands quite full trying to anticipate both the movements of the ring and the bungling of his instructions by the Yard. 

He had been on the verge of figuring out where and who exactly they should target for a day and a half when he'd realized that some assistance of a chemical variety would help immensely with speeding up the process. It had sped up the deductions and within an hour he had the solution (old house four blocks from the dumping site with a series of unused drainage pipes connecting it to the real base of operations two kilometers east.) but he'd also had himself dragged to A&E, so all in all the time had worked out about the same. 

He had to leave and do the job himself, besides, what was there keeping him here? Sherlock looked around the sparse room with a softer gaze than he would usually have allowed himself; over there John had given him his phone, he'd sat in that chair, run his hands over Sherlock's forehead on that pillow. Tiny moments that Sherlock would never forget, but probably with little meaning for the good doctor. No, he resolved, leaving was the best thing for all of them. He'd be able to get back to The Work and John could go on with his other patients as if Sherlock, and whatever it was that he had done to upset him, had never existed.

By the time Mycroft had reappeared Sherlock was dressed and waiting, mask of indifference firmly back in place. If Mycroft noticed anything different about him (the carefully concealed raw edges of emotion that had Sherlock in a state of complete confusion on top of the sense of loss he was feeling), he said nothing, compelled for once by filial affection to hold his tongue. That being said, he did take particular note of the reaction, wondering if something deeper than the surface connection he had witnessed was in play. Their walk through the twisting corridors of St Bart's was done in silence, which made Sherlock's searching eyes all the more noticeable. “ _The season of charity Myc_ ” Mummy's voice echoed in his mind and he sighed. Just this once he would reserve judgment. ‘Tis the season as they say.

“My car will drop you back to your hovel. Mind that you are properly dressed when I come to collect you on Tuesday - there are some sights that even I do not need to see.” Mycroft drawled as he led Sherlock to another one of his unmarked black cars and held the door open for him.

Sherlock scowled back at him from the back seat and pulled out his phone, already finished listening to what his brother had to say. Mycroft sighed and began to close the door before pausing. “Oh, and Sherlock? Do try to avoid showing up high, it really does lower the tone of the afternoon.” With that parting jab he shut the door and Sherlock rolled away from the hospital, back into his life. If he looked back a little bit more frequently than he could justify, well, there was no one there to see it.


	3. John's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes made are our own!

Of all things John hated the most, it was being caught off guard. This was no surprise, seeing as he had spent most his adult life sweeping for unseen enemy and praying hard appropriate cover was nearby for he and his team if they were to be ambushed by gunfire, or worse, an aerial bombing. 

He liked to have at least some semblance of control when entering foreign territory. There was rarely a day where John Watson was left scrambling for footing and unsure of himself. It simply did not work that way. 

Which is why, as John was standing there tending to a paediatric patient with an unfortunate case of measles, aware of someone watching him from the entrance to the ward, he made to clench and unclench his left hand, like he always did when about to face an unknown enemy. 

Why he had already assumed said person was of a hostile nature, he had no idea. Pure instinct, perhaps. 

“A word, if you will, Doctor Watson?” the man spoke. 

John, satisfied with his patient's progress, went over to the nearby bin to dump his used gloves. He then washed his hands thoroughly and proceeded to direct the stranger to one of the small office-like rooms situated on that floor.

John often used this room when he found himself having to break the news to distraught relatives that cutting off life support was the best way out. The same desk and two chairs have bared witness to more than a few consent forms being filled out and signed. 

John gestured for the man to take the seat on the other side of the desk before he took his own. Shifting a little, he leveled his gaze with the stranger, his hands folded on the desk in front of him. 

“How may I help you, Mr…?” John began. 

“Holmes.”

“Ah.”

“I have made arrangements for my brother to continue his treatment at a facility elsewhere. I can assure you that his _condition_ will be thoroughly monitored and he will be well taken care of. You need not do anything except sign these documents, and Sherlock will be out of the hospital by tonight.” Mr Holmes produced a thin stack of papers out of nowhere and pushed them towards John with a flourish. 

John stares at the man before him, then at the offending papers, and back again. The uppermost piece of document contained the name of an institute John had not heard of in his lifetime. One word stood out though. _Switzerland? Wow._ Then, remembering Sherlock's posh undertones and the crisp three piece suit this Mr Holmes was currently donning, he didn't have to think hard to conclude on the Holmes family’s apparent wealth. 

_Fucking hell. My soulmate probably earns more doing drugs than I do in a year. Soulmate. Hold up there, Watson, you're getting ahead of yourself._

“What's wrong with us keeping Sherlock here for the time being?” John asked. “and shouldn't you be asking Doctor Stamford regarding this instead? I'm no longer Sherlock's attending physician.”

Mr Holmes gave a weary sigh. “You are the doctor who saw to my brother when he was brought in the other night, are you not? Doctor Stamford only sees Sherlock as another patient but you see him as a man in need of more than help. Might I add that you seem to be the only being around here who Sherlock could even tolerate having around. My brother doesn't place his trust fully in someone he barely knows often, but when he does, it's for a reason.”

“Does that make me special?” John gave a little smirk. 

Mr Holmes was silent. His gaze momentarily dropped to John's thumb where it had unconsciously begun rubbing his inner elbow before flickering back up to the doctor's face. “We'll see.”

John frowned. _Are the Holmes brothers always this hard to read?_

To be frank, John wasn't sure if he wanted to let Sherlock slip away that easily, especially if he does turn out to be John's soulmate in this world. God knows what could happen to Sherlock next. If his addiction and inclination towards trouble was anything to go by, John didn't dare guess how long it would be until Sherlock was wheeled into the emergency room once again. 

Maybe he should have said something to Sherlock. He should have dropped a hint at least, or tried to find out what Sherlock thought of his soulmate mark, if it mattered to him at all. It would still have been too soon to drop the ball and mention what he saw. The man was so unpredictable that John was now having doubts that Sherlock would readily accept John's claim and be willing to explore their (somewhat a relationship) relationship further. 

Thinking back, John had seen the look in Sholto’s eyes the day he saw his supposed soulmate dead on the cold metal trolley. It was the cold dread of realisation and agony and despair of losing someone he had never known reflected in those wide steel-grey eyes that made John pray that the same never happened to him. Now here he was, slapped with the possibility of losing Sherlock to an uncertain future. 

He could say no to Mr Holmes’ request, buy himself time to get acquainted with Sherlock. Time to decide if he wanted to make the first move. However, something about the man’s demeanor screamed _government_ and that he would get what he wanted, one way or another. 

John heaved a great sigh, picked up a pen lying on the desk and swiftly signed the papers. As Mr Holmes reached out to retrieve the papers, John hesitated, locking eyes with the hook nosed man and sharing a steady gaze. “Would you… Make sure he looks after himself. I know he doesn't want to be stuck with me again. Here, I mean. In hospital.” 

Holmes senior raised a condescending brow and seemed to reevaluate John, his steely gaze completely unnerving, but John held his ground. The soft exhalation he received in return for his request was a dismissal if he'd ever received one. Mr Holmes took the paper with pursed lips and spun on his heel, pausing for a moment in the entryway and then looking back, the oscillation in the doorway seemingly just as confusing to the man himself as it was to John.

“My brother is not in the habit of taking care of himself, despite my best efforts. I don't doubt that he will have a return visit - whether or not that will have anything to do with his current problem remains to be seen. Some mountain air, perhaps, will…clear his head.” 

The elder Holmes seemed to be having trouble, his face pinched in a moue of distaste for his words, but John was only confused by them. What was this conversation supposed to help? John's worries about Sherlock's blatant lack of self restraint were only growing with every word. With a sigh, and an almost weary “until next time, Doctor Watson”, he was gone, and John was abruptly aware that with him went the most difficult patient he'd ever come across (right behind himself of course), the most interesting and intelligent person he was ever likely to meet, and also the first person he'd felt anything beyond base physical desire for since James. 

Somehow the stress he'd been feeling about the situation, didn't go away when the reason for it did. Instead, a new feeling joined it, one John had seldom felt since coming home.

Regret.

\---

With only two days to go until Christmas, a full work schedule and no plans, John was well aware of just how miserable his life must seem. Hell, how miserable it _was_. The hospital corridors, just as busy as always, seemed to echo around him; miraculously empty without the rumbling baritone of Sherlock's voice making deductions, complaining, even insulting every member of staff in the building, anything was better than the new found silence of his day. Not that other patients didn't talk of course, but, there was no one that could hold a patch on Sherlock Holmes. How could they? Competing with Sherlock was a futile endeavor when John's thoughts constantly remained on him: if he was OK, whether or not he might see him again, what he would do if he did. Less than a week and he was spellbound by the junkie/detective/sod. 

_Typical._

John was drifting through his days, running through the motions like a well programmed machine, but always he wondered if maybe Sherlock would have been open to starting something between them, maybe even to the point where he would be willing to look at John's soul mark, just so they could know once and for all. It was stupid now, having all these ‘What if’s?’ when he'd been in a position to actually find out and had been too cowardly to take the chance. 

In the moment, the idea of rejection, and of binding himself to an addict, had been too much to contemplate, too close to the bone for him. Now… now it didn't seem worth it, letting Sherlock leave when he knew in his gut that they were _something_. There was a connection there, whether it was soulmates or destiny or the bloody ghost of Christmas future, John had been the one to let it slip through his grasp. 

He'd pushed Sherlock away, left their tenuous relationship -whatever it was- on a decidedly not -pleasant note when they'd last spoken and then poof, he was gone just like that, mysterious brother figure disappearing into the mist alongside him. 

‘ _The worst part_ ’ John thought to himself in the afternoon as he stitched a neat row across the cut on Mr Donnelly's abdomen ‘ _is that I knew, or suspected, but he didn't. He had no idea why I was suddenly so dismissive of him, and I left him to do the one thing I knew he despised- stew without any interaction on which to gain information, facts, data - while I panicked over the idea of it, without even considering that he would have a say, should have a say. God John, you're a bit of an arsehole._ ’ 

In the evening as forkful after forkful of dinner passed through his lips like clockwork, John wondered if, somewhere out there in a rehab facility in the Swiss alps, Sherlock was eating properly. He hoped so. 

The plastic on plastic slap of a tray joining his own jolted him out of his head and back into the canteen. “Alright Mary?” he asked politely, hoping she wouldn't start the same conversation as Paula had earlier on. Apparently saying ‘You could just find his number John, There's nothing stopping you from having a more… _private consultation_.’ was seen as perfectly appropriate ward conversation. 

To be honest John hadn't even been all that surprised that she had picked up on the little (all consuming, John, admit that at least) spark that had been growing between them, even though he'd tried to avoid him, there are only so many times you can be caught lurking outside a door before people start to question your motives, doctor or not. 

Mary smiled brightly at him and nodded, slipping a carrot stick between her teeth. “I heard you're scheduled for Christmas, Boxing Day and New Year's Eve, so I have two working theories. Either you're a complete workaholic or you don't have anywhere else to be. If it's the second one, a group of us are having a kind of ‘We're working and it's Christmas let's pretend we aren't here’ dinner that you should come to. If the first, you should come anyway.” 

John's first reaction was to decline. He may be all kinds of stupid, but he knew when someone fancied him (with one notable exception) and he got the distinct feeling that this was more than just a casual work colleague kind of invitation. Mary, he knew, had a loving and complete family that would have wanted her to be home with them on Christmas and the fact that she had scheduled herself on for the holiday was suspicious enough. 

When he looked at her face, the cheeky grin lighting up her blue eyes, he wished he could feel something for her other than friendship, but he couldn't. His second, verbal reaction, was to agree to go. Maybe some festive cheer would remind his rebellious brain that other things were important too, and maybe he'd pull himself together enough to actually enjoy it. _I wonder if Sherlock_ \-- John cut that thought off in it's tracks. 

“So, did you see the guy who had to have that spoon removed from his hand?” With that Mary launched into conversation and John tried to concentrate, aware that the edge of his consciousness was fully preoccupied with questions about whether Sherlock would be lonely this Christmas, and the fact that if he was, he didn't have to be. John could have been there alongside him, or at least texting him. Instead both of them were probably going to do things they didn't really want to. 

‘ _Coward_ ’ his traitorous mind whispered. John couldn't help but agree.

\---

That night John did, actually, go home. The bedsit was freezing cold, empty of anything resembling food, and downright depressing in every conceivable way - not to mention the steady thrum of rain beating down against the window, the overcast sky already adding an element of misery to the evening. He rolled into bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling.  
His mind wandered, but always came back to Sherlock. 

If his brother (Posh suit McGovernment meddler) was anything to go by, a lack of wealth leading to destitution and subsequent drug dependence was off the table. Apparently, the mad bugger really hadn't been kidding about the fact that needing stimulation was the reason for his drug use, an addiction born of nothing but boredom and cash to burn. John wanted to be angry at him for it, this criminal waste of the potential he could see was lying dormant inside of him, but the really sad part was that he couldn't be. 

The stupid prat had robbed him of all common sense, because that suddenly seemed like a good excuse, and John sympathized with him. More than that. He wanted, needed, to help him. He couldn't, of course, Switzerland and the brother and disappearing all playing their role, but he wanted to- wanted to somehow prove that this life, fucked as it was, didn't have to be so unbelievably boring that you would resort to killing yourself slowly to get away from it. 

He wanted to be the person that turned Sherlock around, that made him look twice and think that maybe being human wasn't such a bad thing to be. Wanted to _be_ wanted by the devastating man, to be enough to convince him to stop using and _live_. 

That line of thinking shocked his eyes open again.

When had it become so obvious to his subconscious that Sherlock was a connection he wanted to have? It would have been useful to know he'd already made up his mind a few days ago when he could still have done something about it. How was it that in a few days, the kaleidoscope of issues he had with Sherlock as a potential _anything_ had given way to a feeling of ‘Yes, I'll have that one thank you’? What was his life coming to?

John went to sit up on the edge of his bed. He looked from one corner of his quiet little flat to the other. Coming back from the noise and destruction of war made London feel a lot more bleak and dull than he remembered. John chucked silently to himself. _‘Now that sounded like something Sherlock would say. Dull, dull, dull.’_

As much as he loved his current job as a A&E doctor, John craved for more. He wasn't getting any younger, and now that the army was no longer an option, he was burning with the need to occupy his lonely self with a worthwhile distraction. Preferably one that provided a constant stream of adrenaline

John Watson was undoubtedly an ordinary man, but oh how he longed _not_ to be. The ex-soldier deigned to get himself ready for bed, and thus, that night, he dreamt of a sharp tongue firing off deductions and wild, black curls.

\---

“You're pining.”

John’s head snapped in the direction of the person whom he wondered had the audacity to think such a silly thing.

“Er. No I'm not,” John glared at Paula.

“Yes, you are. I know _pining_ when I see it. Trust me, as someone who had to endure the pain of not just one, but two, long-distance relationships in the span of her lifetime, I know what undisguised longing looks like on a person's face, and you, Doctor Watson, are practically radiating with it.”

“Oh? And who am I supposedly longing for, may I ask?”

“That Holmes kid? Nah-ah, don't give me that look! You've been quieter since he was discharged last week. More lost in your thoughts, to the point that I'm beginning to wonder if we're ever gonna get to end of this surgery right here,” Paula smirked, glancing down at the patient on the operating table.

John felt his face go red and he gave a little “hmph” before setting about to finish the rest of the appendectomy on Mrs Collins. Later as the patient was wheeled into the post-surgery ward and John had disposed of his gown and was scrubbing his hands away, Paula sidled up to him, a soft look on her face.

_Oh for god’s sake, am I really being that obvious?_

“John. You’re miserable. Now I don’t know what it is about Holmes that has you all worked up but you need to stop it right now. It’s not good for someone in your position to be this distracted all the time. Either you get off your sorry arse and do something about it or I will.”

It took John a full minute to think this through before he spoke. “I saw his soulmate mark. In his elbow. And..and it had my birthday on it.”

Paula winced. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, John.”

“Thing is, I don’t even know if it’s his birthdate on my mark because I had no reason to make him see it, and now he’s gone. I don’t like not knowing, Paula, I really don’t.”

“What a cruel place this is to find the one you’re meant to spend the rest of your life with, only to have him slip through your fingers, yeah?”

“No shit, and to realise he’s pretty much a broken man, too. Sherlock..Sherlock may have been a right arse to everyone when he was brought in but I could see that he needed a friend or two. He has no sense in manners, I can grant you that, but I’d bet you he can’t help being himself and there’s an _extraordinary_ man under that hard outer shell. He’s brilliant, you know that, you’ve heard his deductions, and I just find it plain sad that he’s throwing all that potential away on cocaine. He needs someone to help him see that he doesn’t have to be alone. I don’t know, Paula, it feels like I’ve been carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders since the minute I met him.” John explained, a sad smile on his lips.

“And if you’re wrong? That you and him aren’t actually, you know, soulmates?”

John doesn't mention the burning pain he felt on his mark when Sherlock was lying there, half-dead from his overdose.

“If we do meet again, that is, I’d still want to be his friend and help him however I can. I’ve failed with Harry but I can’t stand by and watch another poor soul fade away like that.”

“You’re a good man, John, and as a friend I really want to see you happy. I don’t know about you but I believe fate has its ways and we may see Sherlock again soon. Now chin up and help me get the staff lounge ready for Christmas. The day’s almost upon us and unlike most of the staff here, I know how to brighten up a room with Christmas decorations properly,” Paula sighed and led him out of the operating room.

John stood unmoving, lost in thought once more before shaking it off and following his colleague out the door.


	4. Sherlock's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAB made us write out some brotherly feels. Bear with us <3
> 
> If anyone out there is still uncertain on how the soulmate mark works in our version, here's the basic idea: Everyone has a set of random/jumbled numbers on the inside of their arm. However the person's soulmate won't see this same sequence, instead they see their own birth date. So in this case, if Sherlock were to see his own mark, it'd say (e.g) "457221" but John, if he were to see Sherlock's arm, sees "070781" (yes I know the last 2 numbers are weird like that bc we're in the 21st century and date format blahblah but let's just ignore it yeah lol) instead. Thus, being the physician who was there when Sherlock was admitted at the start of our fic, it would be of no use to know Sherlock's birthdate to see if they are soulmates, because, he can't see Sherlock's date on his arm, he'll only just see a random sequence. Sherlock alone can verify the fact.
> 
> So, yeah. :3
> 
> \---
> 
> All mistakes made are our own!

Regardless of Mycroft's insinuations, Sherlock did, in fact, possess the ability both to clothe himself and to avoid his less savoury habits when visiting their childhood home. He wasn't an idiot. Seeing him in anything other than perfect health would upset Mummy terribly, and Mycroft already did enough of that for the both of them. As the two brothers made their way to Sherrinford Estate in silence, Mycroft ruffling through his documents, and Sherlock very pointedly not making conversation, the younger man kept himself busy thinking up ways to leave the dinner early. He intended to return to his cases at home as soon as possible.

“Interesting fellow, that Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise but he refused to turn to face his brother.

“We both know you don’t have _friends_ but this one seemed almost eager to be befriend you. I wonder why,” Mycroft continued.

“Is there a point to this conversation?” Sherlock spat out.

“Most doctors would be glad to have you taken off their hands when you land yourself in hospital but Doctor Watson has been most… accommodating during your short stay. Need I remind you of my access to the cameras everywhere?” 

Sherlock thought back to the week he was at St. Bart’s and what little interaction he had with John. Their first proper introductions when Sherlock regained consciousness and the nights he vaguely saw John hovering in the corridor just outside his hospital room.

“John noticed my apparent sleeplessness. Nothing more than a doctor’s concern for the wellbeing and recovery of his patient.”

“But to be sure to drop by your room the moment he is given the green light to take a break from his rounds and then proceed to stand outside your room for no longer than 3 minutes each time? Does it not seem a bit odd, Sherlock?” Mycroft at this point had put away his papers and was studying his younger sibling intently. 

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, I've gathered that John is not quite as unbearable as the rest of mankind but there's no need to read too much into his behaviour. Now kindly refrain from bringing him up again unless there's something _useful_ about him you're dying to share with me?”

Before Mycroft could reply however, Sherlock had exited the sleek black car and stepped onto the paved driveway that ended at the doorstep of his childhood home. It was a sprawling area with a well-kept front yard and an even bigger yard hidden behind the house. It was a sea of white everywhere Sherlock could see due to the thickening blanket of snow and he took a moment to breathe in the unpolluted air of the country. 

He trained his eyes on the spot to the front of the house where he had once fallen off his own horse. The prized mares were no longer kept there though, considering how the Holmes boys were now adults and hardly back at the estate and their parents themselves, not exactly able to ride the horses anymore; let alone mount them. Mummy now spent her time tending to her greenhouse and their father would be in his library, poring over his collection of old scholars’ books. 

Sherlock felt Mycroft’s presence just behind him, to his left. “As much as I detest sentimentality, I won't deny that it feels nice to be back home. Merry Christmas, little brother, ” Mycroft voiced softly before heading towards the front door of their home, his expensive shoes crunching in the snow and Sherlock hot on his heels. 

\---

“There you are! Oh Sherlock, Mycroft, I've missed my boys,” Mummy Holmes gave them both a hug and a kiss while their father looked on. “Come in, come in before we all catch our death on the porch!” She enthused, chivvying both men inside before shutting the door behind them. “Your father and I were just saying-”

“How we hoped the snow wasn't going to hold you up too much.” Their father finished her sentence with a smile as he stepped forward to pat their shoulders.

“Nice to see you both at the same time again, it's been far too long since we've been able to have Christmas the way we used to. I find I'm quite looking forward to enjoying all our old traditions again.” His eyes crinkled up as he smiled gently at Sherlock, “three just isn't the same.” Sherlock attempted to smile weakly back at him, well aware of the fact that it was he and no one else that was to blame for the distance that had lingered between them for the last five years. 

He seemed to be in the habit of assuring his own seclusion. It had never bothered him until now.

Mummy gave a knowing look but didn't dwell on the subject, choosing instead to let the conversation move on to the success of her peonys and the new striped tulips she was cultivating, how wonderful she had found the Les Mis production in the West End and her concern for the local fauna in this unprecedented snow, and then as they made their way to the kitchen, to Mycroft's workaholic nature, the trouble with North Korea and his thoughts on the new legislation being drafted at the minute, his new house and his diet, what he was doing for exercise and what he was reading for pleasure rather than work.

Sherlock was grateful. His turn for interrogation would come, he knew that. For now he was being given a reprieve, however brief, to compose himself. Why he needed to compose himself, he wasn't quite sure, but he had a niggling suspicion that a certain blonde haired, family-less for the holidays, stubborn doctor had something to do with it. 

“Your bags will be in your bedrooms of course, it's quite late for dinner but maybe a light supper will do the trick before bed. After all lunch will be quite spectacular tomorrow, and I know how tired you both must be, so I'll leave my questions until the morning. Tea anyone?” Mycroft slumped into a chair and nodded, his hand twitching surreptitiously in his pocket under the table, texting his assistant with instructions to murder him no doubt. Sherlock sat at the other end next to their father, both of them content to be silent. 

At least, until tea was drunk and supper picked at. Then Sherlock heard a whisper in his ear. “Are you alright son?” he asked quietly, knowing well that they could not be heard under Mummy's waxing lyrical about the state of affairs in Mycroft's offices. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply briskly, of course he was alright, what else would he be? But was forced to close it again when the words refused to come out. In his pause he could feel the concern building in his Dad, the confusion he was feeling evident on his face (he had made a promise long ago not to hide behind his masks here, and sometimes he tried to keep it.) So when he finally did answer, it was only a surprise to him to realise it.

“I don't know.”

They didn't discuss it further, Mummy was shooing them all upstairs to bed too quickly for that; “It's Christmas eve,you're going to bed at a reasonable hour if I have to put you there myself Myc.” 

But as Sherlock lay in the bed of his childhood he mulled it over. What should have been such a simple question: Are you alright, was not quite so clear cut as it had once been. _Was_ he alright? He considered the overdose, his increasing recklessness with his safety, and above all his reaction to John Watson and the place he had made for himself in Sherlock's mind palace - an inexplicable way to keep him, or the memory of him, close at hand - even when the man himself wanted nothing to do with him. The way even thinking his name made Sherlock's chest clench tightly for no definable reason, and Mycroft's hamfisted insinuations pleased him while simultaneously adding to the weight in his thoracic cavity. 

The fact that John Watson had his attention from the first moment, and was holding it even now, even though they would likely never meet again, a thought that made his throat tight and his stomach drop.  
_"No,"_ Sherlock thought to himself as sleep overtook him. _"I'm not alright at all."_

\---  
Sherlock awoke the next morning prepared to get Christmas Day over and done with. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he dragged himself out of bed and into his en suite bathroom, managing to bump into no less than five different objects in the still mostly-dim bedroom, thanks to the heavy curtains drawn to block out the morning glare. Thirty minutes later, freshened up, dressed in one of his favourite suits and curls tamed, Sherlock stepped out into the corridor and straight into his elder brother.

“Oof! Mycroft! What the hell?”

“Did you really intend to greet this lovely Christmas morning with such manners?” Mycroft sneered.

“Playing the perfectly polite gentleman this morning I see. Well the other son in the family is going out for a walk and you’re not welcome to join me.”

Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What is the point of being home for Christmas if you’re not even going be spending time with Mummy and Father?”

“I wonder that every minute I'm spending here locked in this tedious conversation. Maybe you should go on a walk, make room for all the food you're going to stuff into yourself at dinner, I'm sure there are some paths that will lead you far away from me.” Sherlock scoffed as he pushed past and strode off, intent now on taking that walk just to spite Mycroft. 

“Lunch will be in an hour or so brother mine, I'll let them know where you've gone.” Mycroft's voice softened, laced with something akin to understanding which was frightening at the best of times but even more infuriating when Sherlock himself was confused, both by it and by his own acceptance of said understanding. Clearly he was in more trouble than he'd first thought.

Sherlock stormed off in the direction of his favourite hideaway spot from when he was still a child. It was actually more of a broom cupboard tucked away at the end of one of the least used corridors in the huge house. Sherlock was small as a child so he had fit perfectly in the tight space. It was where he would hide when he got bored with the many tutors his parents presented him with, and it was also where he would lash out his frustrations when other boys he came across started teasing him about being a _freak_ when he was caught collecting specimens of dead rodents in the surrounding forest. 

On the worst days, those frustrations would spill over to actual tears, and little Sherlock would think it impossible to not be more alone in the world. 

Mycroft knew about the hideout, of course he did, but he always left Sherlock alone and never sought him out. He knew better than to offer comfort when Sherlock had already made it clear that he detested appearing weak to anyone but himself. Instead, Mycroft would watch over Sherlock from afar, and if need be, promptly (and appropriately) warn off whomever it was who had humiliated or upset his younger brother.

Up to this day, he was grateful for the “protection” his brother provided him with, but he had never explicitly expressed his gratitude to his sibling. Sentiment and gratitude are the two things Sherlock Holmes never excelled in, after all. 

Making a turn at the end of the still-familiar corridor, Sherlock stopped just outside the cupboard and took a deep breath. Sneaking a quick glance to his left and right, Sherlock stuck out his hand, grasped the door handle and attempted to maneuver his long limbs into the narrow space. It was a very tight fit, but he'd made it, however he had to resort to sitting cross-legged on the floor, his shoulders almost as wide as the cupboard itself. 

Rarely utilised, the cupboard had collected years’ worth of dust, but it was quickly rectified by opening up the tiny window above, within arm's reach. The dark of the cupboard was improved with the bit of sunlight pouring in through the window and Sherlock was able to locate the hidden partition in the wall where he kept his small stash of possessions, which he preferred not to be seen by anyone else. Pulling the box free from its confines, he examined it. It was exactly the same as he had left it, with the small notch made at the bottom right corner with a Swiss army knife. It was a very unassuming box, all black with a small brass lock at the front. The objective being of course that if it was, by some happenstance, uncovered, no one would think anything much of it because of how plain it was.

Inside, wrapped carefully in an old bandana Sherlock had worn religiously in his quest to become a pirate, were the little reminders he had kept of his youth, his humanity and his overwhelming capability to _feel_. There was a replica of this box inside his mind palace of course, - and he had filled it with more objects of significance to him in there -but the physical act of opening it, smelling that familiar scent, they calmed him, soothed the raw edges of him like almost nothing else. 

To most people the little trinkets he had stashed would seem like just that - trinkets. They would not understand why the red dog collar was worn through by a small thumb, or the reason a small paper airplane made out of sheet music for Les Mis had been glued to the underside of the lid. How could anyone see the value in the scratched lense of an ancient magnifying glass, or the small collection of drawings and childhood scrawl that made up his first foray into the world of deduction? Or understand the purpose a matchbox and a box of Marlborough reds -both empty - could have in a box like this, full of the memories of a childhood that ended far sooner than it should have. His first win at a science competition, a bee preserved in amber, a birthday card he had meant to give, but didn’t end up giving, a series of coded messages.

There was, of course, one photo lying at the base of the box, its edges well thumbed, its image unforgettable.

Taken one summer evening from the corner of the porch (so neither of them had been any the wiser), about a year before Mycroft had gone away to school, it was one of the few photos of himself that Sherlock wanted to keep safe. He was being carried, muddied, sleeping and completely oblivious on Mycroft's back while Mycroft smiled softly into the evening sun and held him tightly, like he wanted to be sure he wouldn't wake the boy whose sleeping breath blew gently across his hair.

It was the only photo of the two of them Sherlock voluntarily owned.

It acted as a reminder maybe that no matter how much he hated him, Mycroft had always been there, and would be again and again. The one person he could genuinely depend on to have his best interests at heart. Didn't stop him from being a meddlesome, interfering, know-it-all berk of the highest order, and Sherlock would be damned if he was going to stop antagonising his older brother now, but this he would acknowledge, here in the safety of a small dark room with only his thoughts to occupy him. 

The numbers hiding under his sleeve begged to differ about that, but Sherlock, due to an overwhelming lack of prospective, anything other than murderers was well aware that those digits were worth believing in about as much as any given person on the street.  
_‘There was one’_ A voice chimed in his thoughts _‘John Watson could have--’_ Sherlock viciously wiped that thought away. He had wondered about those numbers as a child; wondered if there was really someone out there who could be his partner for life, one who he'd take care of, and be cared for in return. 

He had been content on having his big brother be his one and only source of comfort, but to the contrary, Mycroft had much more pressing matters to handle besides his brother. There would come a day where he would not be around to look out for Sherlock, and it is at this point that it would be reassuring to have someone else to look to for companionship, one who would keep him grounded. 

Sherlock picked up the dog collar and eyed it wistfully. The cruel irony of losing the first friend he'd ever had to the only brother he had was still a sore point. He knew now of course that Mycroft had never intended to end his first attempt at driving a car with Redbeard having to be put down, but at the time it had seemed exactly something he would do, an ill conceived attempt to demonstrate the futility of caring for anything. Not his intention, but the lesson Sherlock had learned. 

It had been so long since he'd been home, so long since he'd thought of Redbeard or pirates or Mycroft - as a person rather than a series of CCTV cameras and quick access routes to top secret files. Somehow his little misadventure in the ICU, brief and filled with confusion though it was ( _blonde hair, military gait, beautiful smile, STOP_ ) had broken him, forced him to feel again, all because of one man. One man that evidently did not wish to see him. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, lunch is ready sweetheart , now pop on downstairs to the dining room , we're waiting for you!” Mummy's voice carried to him from the bottom of the stairs and Sherlock sighed, pushing his legs out to open the door.  
“I'm on my way, no need to shout.” He supposed he should really go, after all it was one of the first Christmases he'd spent with them in a long time. Carefully he replaced everything into the box and hid it again before hopping up, stretching out and making his way downstairs to face the music. 

\---

Dinner was going about as well as Sherlock could have expected. Mycroft sat across from him, a knowing grin threatening to break across his face that was smothered only for the more important task of stuffing said face with Christmas dinner. Mummy, as vaguely polite as ever, was waiting for them all to finish their first glass of wine before she started in on him Sherlock knew, and Dad was silent, watching him with a curious gleam in his eye as he work ed his way through his plate. 

“...Yes, she's quite well regarded in her field apparently, but of course that's the thing about being a doctor - your field is so full of people ready to pat your back one minute and strangle you with your stethoscope the next!” Mummy laughed and Mycroft's eyes lit up.

“Yes Mummy, why, just the other afternoon I had the pleasure of being introduced to a very fine doctor who knows Sherlock here, and he seemed very fond of him indeed, so naturally he must be competent, perhaps he went to school with Ms Draper, he went to St Bartholomew’s, is that not right Sherlock?” 

Sherlock was going to kill him. Slowly. With something he cared about. Cake, or that infernal umbrella of his. Mummy's smile grew astronomical in proportion, swallowing most of her face while next to her understanding seemed to dawn in Father's eyes.

“Sherlock?! How could you forget to mention you had met someone, and a doctor too!” she trilled. 

“An army doctor actually Mummy, he was invalided out in Afghanistan.” Mycroft's voice chimed in brightly and Sherlock locked eyes with him, daring another word to come out of his mouth. Mycroft simply slipped his fork into his mouth, the picture of innocence, as Mummy's enthusiasm grew.

“He sounds wonderful Sherlock, I do wish you'd thought to invite him down, it's not everyday I get to meet people who Myc describes as being very fond of you. Tell me all about him!” She finished, folding her arms expectantly as Sherlock floundered. 

“Well… uh… I… He's uhm, blonde but leaning towards a sort of brown, short enough that you'd think people would notice but they don't, probably because he has a sort of … presence. He fills up a room even when he's the only one in it, and while he isn't exactly a genius, he's pretty damned smart, except for the psychosomatic limp but that is easily fixed, and he's a bit sarcastic but also genuinely kind to people who definitely,” Sherlock swallowed roughly, “definitely do not deserve it. His name is John, and we are little more than acquaintances at best despite Mycroft's _delightful. Insinuations._ ” Sherlock bared his teeth at his brother who was shaking his head gently and muttering ‘oh for god's sake’ under his breath.

When he looked up at his parents, both were giving him tender looks. “What?” he asked abruptly, rolling his eyes as they shared a knowing glance.

“Sherlock, we don't want to--” Mummy began but then trailed off, which was unlike her. Clearing his throat, Father took up the baton. 

“What she means to say, son, is that it seems to us like you, and probably this doctor of yours, would both like to be something a bit more familiar than just acquaintances. I haven't seen you this worked up… well, ever I think. I know, we know that you can do anything you put your mind to- including having a relationship with someone if that's what you wanted to do and I think it is. So I suppose the real question is, what's holding you back?”

Sherlock was silent, disbelieving that he was having this conversation at all. He put down his spoon, and, clearing his throat, continued the first and last discussion about his nonexistent personal life. 

The first words out of his mouth were so soft that his parents had to strain forward to hear them. “John.. John's too good for me.”

Mummy’s features softened further. “Oh, Sherlock, my boy…”

“..and as I said earlier, I didn't and still don't, deserve the kindness he showed me when..when we first met. I don't deserve him. I'm a sociopath, Mummy, and sociopaths aren't exactly meant to lead happy lives alongside their better halves.”

Mycroft took in a sharp intake of breath at that last sentence, and Father did nothing but reach out and grab hold of Sherlock's wrist on the table. Sherlock's father very rarely offered advice as it was mostly his wife's role in the family, but it was here and now that he found it apt to take up the responsibility, and show Sherlock that his parents would always be there for him to fall back on when he needed comfort. 

Squeezing Sherlock's hand, Father spoke. “Son, you'd be surprised to know that I, too, didn't believe in soulmates, until your mother came along. I may not have looked like it but I was very quiet as a little boy, for a period of time, quite the unsociable outcast. I did not want anything to do with anyone and whatever friends I had, I couldn't keep for more than a year, at best. I had myself convinced that no one in the world understood me. That belief flew out the window when I made friends with this lady right here,” he gave Mummy a nudge and wide smile, “she opened my eyes to what I'd been missing, and more importantly, she opened my heart. Everything else was history, and it was just a bonus that we eventually realised our soulmate numbers matched up.”

At this point Mycroft was stealthily digging into more of the pie and Sherlock had turned a light sheen of pink, not accustomed to the affection his father was bestowing upon him. 

It was Mummy's turn to speak. “What your father means, dear, is that you should give this a chance, you deserve to be just as happy as we are darling, and maybe it will work out, and maybe it won't. There are no guarantees in love, but you shouldn't let it walk right by you without at least reaching for it.” 

Sherlock swallowed hard, avoiding his parents’ eyes as he contemplated what they had said. _Did_ he love John? He had barely managed more than a single civil conversation with the man, and they were so different on so many levels, but there was emotion there, attached firmly to the idea of John being something for him to unravel, to strip bare and put back together again. John could do that for him too, he already seemed to be remarkably astute at reading Sherlock, and maybe he would be amenable to Sherlock's affections. 

John wasn't a cruel man, Sherlock knew this, and he wouldn't just throw Sherlock away without explanation or valid reason, both of which Sherlock consistently took great pleasure in ripping apart to suit his needs and in this he would be justified...unless of course John was already spoken for, or if he was waiting for some sort of guarantee that they were soulmates before he'd agree to be anything to a man he knew was a drug user, or he really didn't feel the same way as Sherlock clearly did. 

“How do ordinary people do this! It's infuriating! The sheer number of variables, there's no possible way to prepare for every outcome, and regular people do this as a way to pass the time? Just, just go ahead and throw their lot in with whomever they happen to ‘fancy’ at any given moment?! The risks alone should deter them enough!” Sherlock exclaimed as he ran a hand through his curls, data whirling through his head. 

Surprisingly to all involved, it was Mycroft who replied to him with a melancholy smile. “Sometimes, the risk is worth the reward, wouldn't you think?”

Sherlock caught himself before he could let slip that the doctor could not possibly love a drug addict like him. His parents did not deserve to know about that shameful part of him; he could not bear the thought of destroying the small bubble of normality the family still had. There were rifts here and there but the Holmeses were still going strong, and Sherlock was not about to be the one to cause it all to come crumbling down. He had to think of a response, and a convincing one at that, if he were to get past Christmas ( _tedious_ ) alive. 

Sherlock pondered a while longer, ultimately coming to the conclusion that the data set he was clinging on to was still irritably _incomplete_ , and that to compile whatever else he needed, he had to see John again, somehow. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, and looked at his brother squarely in the eyes.”I can’t quite believe I’m saying this, but you’re right, brother mine. However, if nothing goes the way it should be, rest assured I will tell Mummy about that one time in summer where you-”

“Alright, alright, not one word. Now pick up your cutlery and eat, Sherlock, you’re still so thin, it’s a wonder your feet are firmly planted on the ground at all,” Mycroft interjected, a small spark of panic alight in his eyes.

Sherlock indulged in a small smile for his sibling before turning back to his parents, smile widening and giving a small nod to each in gratitude, food already forgotten and mind racing with the thoughts of a thousand possible futures with a certain John Watson by his side.

\---

The presents were exchanged right after amidst the clinking of wine glasses and wrapping paper strewn _everywhere_. Ordinary - completely and utterly so - though the scene was , Sherlock knew he would treasure this time like a closely guarded secret no matter how boring it should have been. 

As sons it was his and Mycroft's _duty_ to moan and whinge about how bored they were even if they were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It was tradition - first Mycroft would complain about the hours dragging on, then Sherlock would bemoan the lack of murders, Mycroft would threaten to murder _him_ , Sherlock would tell him to at least make it worth his while, and at that point Dad would threaten to murder both of them if they didn't stop bickering. He had missed it while he was away.

Sherlock did not come prepared with presents for anyone, however, considering that he had been busy with the case and did not expect to be seeing his family for Christmas. His parents waved it off with a tight embrace from each, his mother simply saying “You're home for Christmas. It's enough of a present for us darling,” and in return, they presented him with a heavy, decidedly-not-small box complete with ribbon on top. 

He eyed it dubiously before tentatively running his hand over the smooth blood-red wrapping paper. Sherlock glanced at his parents once again for permission before pulling the ribbon apart, delicately removing the wrapping paper and lifting the lid. He pulled out the lump of material inside and unfolded it to find himself staring at a gorgeous Belstaff coat of a very dark navy blue colour. It was mostly wool but comfortable enough to wear in London weather and Sherlock was simply _stunned_. 

He stood up and put on the Belstaff coat like it was his own skin of armour, letting his hands run over the collar, lapels and inside the deep pockets. 

“We saw it in the shop window the same evening we went to see _The Nutcracker_ at the theatre. Your father has always had good taste in coats so he thought that it would suit you very well. I know you love running around and doing that detective thing you do so the coat definitely lends you that air of mystery,” Mummy spoke, eyes sparkling in delight. Father on the other hand just nodded along, face pulled in a wide smile. 

For a man of perfect eloquence, Sherlock found himself at a total loss of words, until with a guilty heart, he stepped forward into his parents’ embrace. He had not been an easy child to raise, always hard-headed and finding himself losing friends more than he was gaining them. Yet through it all, his parents have provided steadfast support and constant love and it is with this coat that they have come to terms with the man Sherlock has turned out to be, flaws and all. 

Pulling back, he mouthed a silent “thank you’ to both his parents. Mummy took the chance to place a gentle palm on his cheek, eyes soft with love for her youngest son. “You take care of yourself, alright my dear?” Sherlock gave a tiny nod. He has not done a swell job of staying well recently but he hoped it was about to change, if all goes well with John Watson. _John_. 

Behind them, Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat. Evidently the elder sibling would never not be uncomfortable around prolonged displays of affection. “I, too, have a present for you, little brother. You see, I do not intrude on a person’s privacy without due reason.” With that, he stepped forward, and simply said, “St. Bart’s staff lounge, 9.30 o’clock this evening. He’s all yours.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, uncomprehending.

“Oh _for god’s sake_ , I just told you where John will be tonight. What are you waiting for? Off you pop, brother mine!”

Sherlock went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the story seems a little too rushed to you, no worries, we're not planning to make it _that_ easy for John and Sherlock to get their happy ending ;) Meanwhile drop us a comment to let us know how we're doing, it'll help very much!
> 
> \--
> 
> The idea of the pic with Mycroft carrying Sherlock on his back was inspired by this work of art and its original artist http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/136598154738 ; Go check it out, and beware, you might spill some tears.


	5. John's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one for today, make that a short prelude for the angst to come ;)

Against all odds, John was having a fairly good time. Yeah, he was working on Christmas day with next to no staff and patients few and far between, but those that did arrive were generally very apologetic about the burn/cut/idiocy that had brought them to A&E in the first place so he couldn't really complain.

The staff he knew that were around (Helen, Tony, Andrew, Cathy, Marie, Dan and of course, Mary) were equal parts grouchy and jovial, bickering and joking playfully with each other as the day wore on. Even the most hard hearted of people couldn't help but crack a grin as Dan belted _Jingle Bell Rock_ audibly in the bathroom, the soft shriek of surprise he emitted as his voice was joined by two others (Cathy and Helen) from just outside the door was priceless.

With the Christmas party due to begin in two hours, John made a small detour to the staff lounge on his way to check on a patient, just to make sure that everything was still in order and that none of the food had been feasted on in secret. He was especially proud of the batch of roasted potatoes he had cooked himself in the small staff pantry just before. It had been a long time since he cooked for anyone other than himself so John could only cross his fingers in the hope that he did not land anyone, or himself for that matter, in the same A&E as patients themselves, albeit with food poisoning. 

Glancing around the room, his smile widened even more as he took in the fact that the lounge, dull on normal days, now screamed festive joy and companionship what with the frankly amazing Christmas tree situated in the corner, adorned by ornaments and sheltering a delightful number of colourfully-wrapped presents. Blankets and quilts were thrown all over the place, some belonging to the staff themselves in an effort to make the party feel more homely. There were plenty of twinkling lights hanging from one end of the ceiling to the other, and there was even mistletoe, if you looked hard enough. 

Certain that everything was as it should be, John closed the door to the lounge and made his way over to Mrs Jameson’s room to check on her. 

\---

John made his rounds once more before the party started, bidding staff who were going off duty a “goodnight and have a Merry Christmas!” and making sure each and every one of his patients were either asleep or comfortable in their beds before removing his doctor’s coat and joining in the merry atmosphere already flooding the staff lounge. Upon entering, at least two voices exclaimed “there he is!” before John was pulled into a group hug with an _oomph_. He was then poked and prodded until he broke into a grin and contributed to the staff’s not-so-harmonious rendition of _All I Want for Christmas is You_. 

Season’s greetings were exchanged, food was passed around the makeshift dinner table, and there were plenty of faces stuffed with cream rolls and turkey that you’d be surprised no one had managed to collapse from overeating. Bearing in mind that they were all still pretty much on duty that night, they had all agreed on no alcohol to be involved in that night’s festivities. Thus, sparkling juice replaced wine in their glasses, and too soon, it was time for the presents to be unwrapped before they were all to return to their lives outside the staff lounge. 

Through it all, John kept up his best smile, genuinely thankful for the company and yet, he could not help being distracted with thoughts of whether Sherlock was alone or surrounded by family at that moment, whether he was feeling lonely or loved, or whether he wished he was somewhere else, not unlike how John felt at that very moment. 

“Hey, Doc, you there?”

John was snapped out of his reverie by Dan’s pat on his back and feeling sheepish at having been caught, quickly handed his present to his colleague.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine, sorry ‘bout that. Merry Christmas, Dan.”

The green wrapping paper was unceremoniously ripped apart by Dan and before John could grasp what was happening, he was being enveloped in a bone-crushing hug by the burly hospital security guard.

“Doc you shouldn’t have!”

“You needed it big guy, now stop hoarding _our_ fruit juicer and make your own protein shakes at home. God knows what you put in those things anyway,” John laughed, smacking the other hard on the back and pulling away, and just as he was about to turn back to face his circle of colleagues, John spotted a very familiar face hovering in the corridor just outside the lounge.

_Sherlock?_

John stared as those cat-like eyes scanned the room through the small window before focusing on his. Both sets of eyebrows raised in recognition, and just as John stood up and was about to head towards the door, he was stopped by a gentle hand on his elbow and pulled to face Mary.

“Where are you going John? Forgetting something?” the nurse teased, her eyes flickering up to just above her head. The doctor knew what was coming, and was not surprised when he quickly glanced up to spot the mistletoe hanging right above them.

Cheers in the form of “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” and a few whistles erupted from the small group and before he could protest, John was nudged forwards by a helpful and impatient hand and he then found himself quite reluctantly pressing his lips to Mary’s. Her lips were soft, he could grant her that, but frankly John did not like getting interrupted and he was intent on keeping this kiss a short one. He broke it off and shooting an apologetic look at a very disappointed Mary, announced to the rest, “I’m sorry, I just, I have to go see someone--” and shoved open the lounge door to an empty corridor.

He swung his head left and right but there was no indication of Sherlock, the one person he had been wanting to see and John’s heart sank. 

“Sherlock?” He called loudly, voice echoing down the seemingly empty corridor, but there was no way - unless the man was some sort of Usain Bolt speed runner - that he had made it very far. 

“Sherlock, where are you? I don't…” But then he did. Just before the corridor split off into two others, a door creaked faintly and John focused on it, spotting the strip of dark navy fabric swinging just inside. He wasn't going to let this slip away again. Not when he was finally sure that there was something there.

Quietly he walked towards the supply cupboard, wincing at the intermittent squeak of his shoes on the polished floors. However, either Sherlock hadn't heard him, or he wasn't going to run away, because before he knew it John's hand was on the door handle.

“Sherlock? Why are you standing in here in the dark?” Not exactly what he had been hoping to say, but it was something, a start. Sherlock didn't reply, tearing himself away from the door and into the room itself, hiding between sets of shelves so all but his outline was hidden from John. John stepped inside and closed the door behind himself, leaving the lights off. 

“Sherlock, I… what are you doing here?” He asked softly, aware of how intimate this was, the two of them standing only metres apart, separated by shelves and darkness. He swallowed roughly, praying that the other man would say something, anything.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak again, Sherlock broke his silence. “I'm asking myself the same.”

He sounded… different somehow. Hoarse, maybe? John didn't know what it was about that voice but it set his nerves on edge, it was wrong, off completely from the luxurious baritone that had played constantly in his head all week and it scared him. 

“I don't know what you mean?” John queried, hoping to garner a reaction, a blow up, a tirade of deductions about his idiocy, anything at all that would set him at ease. 

“This was a mistake, I apologise for keeping you from your plans. If you'll excuse me.” With that Sherlock was over in his space, close enough that John could smell him, close enough that if he wanted to, he could reach out and touch the freckles on his neck, the position of which he knew like they were his own. John did none of those things. His stomach was in his mouth, and John knew that whatever it was that was happening, he had to stop it. 

“I don't think it was a mistake, I'm glad to see you, more than glad actually - I've been wondering--” 

Sherlock cut him off with a snarl. “ _Don’t_. Your idiotic peers may fall for that tripe but I am not about to. Spare me your platitudes and run along, I'm sure you're _missed_.” 

By the time he'd bitten these words out, their ferocity tearing the air around them , ripping brutally from his throat, John felt him rather than saw him slacken, the fight apparently gone out of him. It made John want to throw up.

“I don't know what you're talking about but I really would like to--” 

Again, Sherlock cut across him, but this time he simply sounded tired, like even the act of breathing was a strain on him. “J-, I… Look, could you just get out of the way? I need to leave.” 

John couldn't help but step forward, lay a hand on his arm in an attempt to comfort him but if anything he seemed to tense up more under John's hand. 

“You could… you could stay? I mean, I'd like it if you maybe stayed, or, or we could...” John trailed off himself. A soft noise like an animal wounded broke forth from Sherlock's lips and he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe but for confusion and hurt for whatever it was that was making Sherlock, so utterly luminous and brilliant, anything less than himself. 

“Please.” Sherlock breathed into the space between them. “Please don't make me stay and watch this all play out.” His voice cracked, wavered, tore John's heart from his chest and trampled all over it. 

“Sherlock I don't understand, I don't want to hurt you, I don't… I don't know what's happening.” 

John wanted to shake himself, to wrack his brains and find even a twelfth of the intelligence Sherlock possessed so he might understand what was going on, anything to fix this. He had nothing, and he still couldn't see, couldn't use his best sense to try and read the situation. Maybe the light would help. The switch was a string pull system that would require him to walk a little way into the shelving units but at this stage, he was desperate. “I'm just going to turn on the lights alright? Just, just wait a second for me to turn on the lights.” 

Sherlock said nothing, did nothing, if John didn't know better he'd have said the man wasn't even breathing. As fast as his legs would carry him John was across the room, pulling the switch and blinking hard as the brightness burned after so long in the dark. When his eyes adjusted, Sherlock was halfway out the door.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallowed audibly, and slowly, as if it pained him, turned to face John. Red eyes, wet and hurting, locked with his and John had never felt like more of a traitor than he did in that moment. Carefully, and it looked like it took all the effort in the world, Sherlock quirked his mouth into a parody of a smile. 

“Merry Christmas John. Tell Nurse Morstan that she is a _very_ lucky woman.” 

With that he was gone, racing out of the room and away at full pelt and John, in his utter shock, was too late to really follow him, losing the man down the twisting corridors like a ghost that was never there to begin with. 

“ _Christ._ ” John panted as he slid to the ground against a wall, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

It was crystal clear to him now what had happened, and he wanted to cry. Clearly Sherlock had come back for him only to witness the whole mistletoe debacle and get the entirely wrong impression. John didn't even _like_ Mary all that much. He didn't love her like he did Sher--. 

“Oh, _oh no. Shit._ ” 

He loved Sherlock.

He was _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes, the man who'd just run into the night on the verge of tears to get away from him, and who incidentally thought he was in love with someone else, and who may actually be his soulmate and, _ah yes_ , the pièce de resistance, he had no way of ever contacting him again. This had been his second chance, and he had completely fucked it up. People didn't get third chances in this life.

John Watson was in love, and it is this depth of feeling that outright terrified him.

John sat and stared down the corridor, willing him to come back. It stayed empty all night.


	6. Sherlock's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've both been busy with work and school, so we're here with a lil update ;)

_What had he been thinking?_ Sherlock Holmes does not do _sentiment_.

For once, he had let his heart rule his head, and he had literally chased John Watson to his front door. The door to the staff lounge, mind you, but what does it matter? Evidently he had mistaken John’s compassion for interest in something more. He had left heartbroken, seeing John kiss that nurse. It had only served to remind him that John deserved someone better. Someone normal, just like Mary.

_Delete, delete, delete!_

Sherlock stretched out from his fetal position on the sofa in his apartment. He steepled his fingers under his chin and thought hard about what he had convinced himself to do next. He had no choice really, dinner had proven that he was compromised, and if he couldn't concentrate properly during a paltry dinner because of John Watson, how would he fare on a case? Going to that hospital today, and this was coming from a drug user who'd almost OD’d a short time ago, had been one of the least intelligent decisions he had ever made. Deleting it, all of it, that was the only way to fix this… feeling in his chest. Mycroft had told him years ago that caring was not an advantage and he had, much to Sherlock's disappointment, been right. 

>   
>  _Find: John Watson, MD - delete._  
>  > Sub folder 1: Appearance (His eyes his smile the wrinkle of his frown the hidden musculature of his--) -delete.  
>  >Delete.  
>  >Sub folder 38: Interaction (“ Use mine, it might take me a little while to get yours and you said urgent so. Here you go.”.....“I’ve got all night.”...”You asked for me, so here I am.”...You could… you could stay? I mean, I'd like it if you maybe stayed, or, or we could...”) -delete.  
>  SUB FOLDER DELETION 95℅ COMPLETE.  
>  >Search for: Associated items  
>  RESULTS: 3  
>  >Storage, emotions: Attraction, Friendship, Desire, Longing, Belonging, L*** REDACTED INFORMATION?? reference point DELETED - Delete.  
>  >Subconscious, dreamscape: reference point DELETED centric scenarios, Fantasy; Ending, Arm; mark curiosity -delete.  
>  WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEAL OR RESET THE EAST WING?  
>  **COMPLETE.**  
> 

With a gasp, Sherlock shuddered back into the present. Peeling his eyes open slowly, Sherlock felt like his normal self but could not help feeling a little bit more hollow inside, as if something was missing. Brushing it off, he reached for his phone, unlocking it to see he has two missed calls from his acquaintance down at Scotland Yard. Another call comes through at that very moment, to which Sherlock answered.

“What do you have for me Lestrade?”

He listened to the detective inspector before voicing his affirmative and promising to arrive at Lestrade’s office within the next twenty minutes. Spinning on his heel, Sherlock draped his dressing gown on the arm of his chair, threw on his new coat and swept out the door.

\---

Sitting in the cab, Sherlock amused himself by twirling his phone in his hands while they had stopped at a traffic light and stared out the window, deducing the people crossing the road. The journey to Scotland Yard was one he had made hundreds of times from all across the city.  
While the landscape of the streets occasionally changed with old shops closing and new ones rising to take their place on the high street, for the most part there was nothing to amuse him en route except for the pedestrians.

He absentmindedly watched a man ( _formerly an army doctor, struggling to adjust to the change of pace, working the ER, subtle hints indicating a psychosomatic limp-_ ) pass in front of the cab.

The lights turned green and Sherlock shifted his attention back to his phone. 

_‘We both know that Anderson and Donovan are in the building, because despite your vocal disagreement with the fact, they both work here. Please try not to antagonise them. Or anyone else for that matter -DI Lestrade’_

He huffed a laugh and pocketed the phone, wondering what delightful tidbit of information about the frankly scarring sexual escapades those two engaged in would assault his senses first.

The cab drove off.

\---

Sherlock entered Lestrade’s office in his typical fashion, taking the opportunity on the way in to enquire as to the status of Donovan and Anderson’s affair and telling them off before Anderson even had the chance to shoot back with an insult of his own.

“You sure you’re alright to work this case, Sherlock?” Greg asked, looking up from where he is slumped over at his desk in exhaustion and just a little bit of frustration.

“Huh? Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock frowned, overlooking the evidence board where details of the latest case has been scattered.

“Well..it’s just.. Your brother.. Mycroft made contact to tell me about what happened last week.”

Sherlock froze momentarily before plucking a picture of the crime scene from the pile. “This is obviously a crime of passion judging by the state of the victim’s clothing and-”

“Sherlock.” Greg sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You were doing so well, you know.”

Sherlock didn't look up from his examination of the crime scene photos to reply. “Well while I appreciate that the passive aggressive lecture you're no doubt building up to would be _riveting_ stuff, I think I'll give that segment of this conversation a miss and focus instead on the wonderful gift of dead bodies, thank you.”

“I don't want to lecture you any more than you want to hear my lecture, but seriously Sherlock. I'm sticking my neck out for you around here and drugs, of any sort, really jeopardizes this position for us both.”

The detective jerked his head towards his friend. “Look. I caught you the perpetrators in the end, did I not? Did I not solve the case your _incompetent_ excuse of a police force was struggling with for the past year?”

“Yes, and _thank you_ , again, Sherlock, but I wish you could have done so without having to resort to drugs again. I honestly thought we were over that. That you were in complete control of your transport, as you never fail to remind us constantly.”

“For god’s sake… you’ll never understand what it is like when your mind is whirring out of control only to jerk to a stop and refuse to connect the dots. I did what I had to do. I got the job done, so kindly drop the subject so we can focus on _this_ case, if you don’t mind, detective inspector?” Sherlock spun back towards the evidence board. “Now what can you tell me about these marks on the victim’s body?” 

Lestrade could only shake his head in exasperation before stepping forward to fill Sherlock in on the details.

\---

It only took the consulting detective an impressive five hours to analyse all the evidence and provide Lestrade with the means to track down the victim’s jilted ex-husband, on the run with what remained of their combined trust fund and the entirety of the victim’s collection of rare diamonds. Said ex-husband was currently leading Sherlock in a wild goose chase down a beaten path weaving in and out of a series of buildings alongside River Thames, having been spotted by the latter whilst making his way to Waterloo Station that night.

More than once Sherlock had stumbled, no thanks to the Belstaff coat he absolutely refused to leave behind and the slickness of the ground due to the light rain that had graced London’s skies barely an hour before. He caught his footing in time to see his target skid into a darkened alleyway, toppling a rubbish bin on the way in an attempt to stall the detective. Sherlock simply leapt over the offending plastic tub and continued the chase, fatigue starting to catch up with him, yet this was what he lived for; the thrill of running headlong into danger and the unknown and all for the sake of proving himself useful and clever and above all, quieting the ceaseless cries of his inner demons. 

Rounding another corner, the two men end up back onto the streets, quiet now that London was settling down for the night. Sherlock followed the perpetrator as he sprinted across the street, heading towards Waterloo Bridge. He also appeared to be slowing down but was pressing on, keeping a steady distance between himself and the detective. Soon, although perhaps not soon enough, they found themselves on the bridge with the murderer coming to a halt halfway across and turning to face his pursuer.  
A young couple stared at the bizarre scene unfolding before them from afar.

“The game is up Mr. Ricoletti. We both know that you're responsible for Emilia's death. Running, no matter how fast, isn't going to change that.” Sherlock called to him, daintily sliding forwards using the rain slicked surface as a means of moving further across the bridge without taking an obvious step. 

“Running will change some things. Whether I go to prison or not, for example. Do you know what would happen to someone like me in a prison? Listen to my voice. I would be torn apart. I won't let that happen.” Ricoletti countered, eyes jumping from side to side searching for some way of escaping. The man had unwittingly cornered himself by running onto a bridge in the first place; there are only three ways you can go: Forward, backward, or overboard. 

Slowly but surely Sherlock inched closer. “Why kill her in the first place, that's what I don't understand. It was clear from her home that Emilia still cared deeply for you, if you had have asked it seems highly likely that she would have helped you financially. Oh!” He was close enough now to see the truth rush across Ricoletti’s face. “Oh I see. The money wasn't ever really the issue, was it. This was about Emilia, personally. Was it the budding romance with her old horse riding instructor? No? Perhaps it was the way that she cut you completely out of her life.” 

Ricoletti’s fist tightened. 

“If not that, then what. What could this seemingly charming young woman have done to give you the fire to murder her in cold blood, hm? Did she smile at the pool boy?” Sherlock had always had a big mouth. From the time he could speak, his mouth had gotten him into all kinds of trouble.

He distinctly remembered a dinner party his parents had thrown at which he had, aged just four, announced that the Johnsons’ marriage was on the rocks, and rightly so seeing as Mrs Johnson was clearly a closeted homosexual drowning in the sham that was her life. (Despite the fracas that revelation had caused, Eugenia and her partner always sent him a Christmas card, he had one displayed on his bedside locker at that very moment.) At the time he hadn't understood why what he had said was causing such upset, after all the times he had heard that honesty was the best policy, new rules seemed to come into play. 

He'd never really been big on rules. School had offered up its own set of challenges and he had sharpened his tongue to a razor's edge on the backs of bullies and refined his technique until the first cut was to the bone. Somewhere along the line he had softened his blows again, probably when everyone finally decided he was better off left alone, to something more irritating than soul crushing. A confession is more likely to be made when a suspect is too frustrated to keep their story straight than when they're sobbing about their deepest insecurities. Goading suspects into confessions was a skill of his.

Goading them into going after him was also a skill of his. Why he never saw this coming he couldn't understand, especially when he was in situations like this. He never could seem to get a hold of his mouth when it started to get away from him.

The almost witty retort was new: “No. She was fucking my sister.”

The knife was not.

Sherlock was able to deflect the first blow with a well-timed dodge to Ricoletti’s right, bringing up his arm to connect his fist in a solid jab to the man's ribs, but his opponent was broader than him by a fair bit, so the punch did nothing more than pull a grunt from Ricoletti. He twisted around and backed up, considering his options on how to best bring the man down. 

Times like these, he wished he had someone to back him up. Or, he wished he had the foresight to be at least bothered to wait for Lestrade and the rest before giving chase. Sherlock often did not have the upper hand when he had to resort to hand-to-hand combat, and right now, he was running out of options, fast. Adding to that, he was still not at his physical peak, having just barely recovered from an almost fatal overdose. Somehow his decisions of late hadn't been the best.

Breathing hard, Sherlock braced himself against the railing of the bridge as Ricoletti threw himself at the detective, bringing the knife high to aim it at Sherlock's neck only to be shoved back hard as Sherlock kicked his legs up to push the man backwards, buying himself a brief moment of reprieve. He followed with a right hook to the man's left temple, knocking him off balance. 

Sherlock winced, the knuckles of his hand protesting, but he barely had time to contemplate his next move before Ricoletti was snarling, and there was a blur of movement all around, and he could feel something wrench into his side before being withdrawn, but it's all just transport, and so in the ensuing struggle, Ricoletti’s skull made contact with the railing in a satisfying crunch. He staggered backwards, clutching his head and swaying. For a brief moment Sherlock wondered if he was actually going to keep attacking but all at once Ricoletti was tilting over the railing in a daze, but not before he grabbed hold of the nearest possible support, promptly dragging Sherlock Holmes into the Thames along with him. 

Well. Of all the ways to go, Sherlock didn't think he'd be doing so by drowning. Quite dull, if you asked him. At least an overdose would have been his own decision, and distinctly less full of rat urine and communicable diseases. Then again, what difference did that make to him now? He was dying, after all.

 _Drowning. Cold, choking, ringing in his ears, cold and more cold._

Ricoletti’s fingers were still attached steadfastly to his coat. The coat wasn't helping. The heavy material was absorbing water fast and weighing Sherlock down quicker than he could hope to kick himself to the surface. Add Ricoletti’s weight, and Sherlock was almost certain he would never see the light of day again. 

With the frigid water all around him, Sherlock finally felt the sharp tendrils of pain curling to the side of his upper abdomen. Evidently Ricoletti’s knife did make contact with his person. 

_Pain. Cold. Burning in lungs. Oxygen. Depleting. Kick. Kick. Kick._

Sherlock flailed, trying to shake Ricoletti free. He was now totally submerged with a dying man dragging him down, a literal deadweight. His arms refused to free themselves from his coat sleeves as the pain in his abdomen flared to life, threatening to send him into shock severely lowering his chances of surviving. Making them about 0% actually. So, lower than he would like.

 _Panic. Choking. Numb. Everywhere, numb. Pain. Too cold. Eyes, closing. Lungs, drowning. Drowning. Water. Water. Oxygen? No._

_**HELP.**_

He could no longer feel his fingers, his joints were locking up and his remaining oxygen leaving him in rapid mocking bubbles, out his mouth and nose. He wasn't sure what he would have preferred at that moment: the agonising pain of the stab wound at his side or the almost calming numbness overriding his body. It was almost warm. The surface of the river, rippling with movement, was no longer within reach as he was pulled further into the depths of the Thames. 

_This is how I die._

In the moment, it wasn't so bad. It didn't hurt at all now, the sinking was comforting in a way. It was bizarre how the physics at the bottom of the Thames was so different than you'd expect. Take the direction of gravity for example. Completely backwards. Up was most definitely down.

 _“Christ, Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?!”_

_**Everything is blue and blazing into his eyes.**_

_“No no no don't close your eyes, I will murder you myself, Sherlock. Sherlock?”_

_“Ready? 1, 2, 3, CLEAR!”_

_**Cold-** _

_“Call ahead Ray they'll need warming blankets and… on standby…. He's in v-fib, PADDLES!”_

_“Where's this blood coming fro-- He's been stabbed!”_

_**It is very cold-** _

_“Sir please sit down, we're two minutes out, we'll patch him up as best we can!”_

_“We've got a drowning with one exposed laceration to the abdomen, hypothermia has set in and we have resuscitated twice already-”_

_**Why is everything so loud-** _

_“What do we- oh. Oh! Someone page Doctor Watson immediately, tell him it's Sherlock Holmes-”_

_**Why-** _

_“Come on Sherlock, don't do this, come on!”_

_**Familiar. Why is that familiar.** _

_“Just stay with us okay? You're going to be okay.”_

_**So heavy-** _

_“Look at me. You're going to be okay.”_

_**His eyes are blazing blue and everything is brighter.**_

Giving up the fight, Sherlock closed his eyes.


	7. John's POV

John cursed under his breath as Sherlock's body went limp once more, the wheels of his gurney squeaking against the linoleum floor as he was pushed straight into surgery. Someone was already pumping air into Sherlock's lungs, trying to assist in ensuring his body receives the oxygen it needs, while another promptly pushes John into the adjoining room to prep. 

John shoved his hands under the tap and scrubbed away quickly, wincing at the angry red of his soulmate mark on his inner elbow and trying his best to ignore the stinging pain that was starting to spread from his arm to the rest of his torso. He needed to focus if he were to save Sherlock's life - his soulmate - once again. 

Tamping down on the panic, he finished up, turning towards the nurse that held up a towel and his surgical gloves. Pushing his way back into the operating room, he nodded towards a junior doctor who had been doing all he could to stabilise the patient on the bed. 

John swallowed hard as he took in Sherlock's pale form, blood slowly pooling underneath him as the the staff fussed about, recording down his vitals on a chart, preparing the necessary surgical tools and ripping Sherlock free of any clothes that could come in the way of saving his life. 

“Doctor, we've got adrenaline on standby-”

“Pulse is still touch and go, oxygen not yet at full saturation-”

“We've ready to pump his stomach in case there's still water-”

“Body temperature still at 22 degrees and rising, shall we-”

“The stab wound was a clean cut, barely missing his liver-”

John took a moment to let the chaos wash over him, the throbbing in his arm causing him to clench and unclench his fist, throwing him off focus for a bit, but then he pulled himself together and with swift intent, made use of the pain to propel him forward and to Sherlock's side. 

Taking deep breaths, John set to work, eyes ablaze with grim determination as he quickly sent his team every which way, handing him tools, taking charge of mechanical breathing, warming Sherlock's body up. The nurses and doctor assisting him knew what kind of doctor John was; he would not let a life slip through his fingers without first putting in his utmost best to save it. Even when the odds of survival were slim to none, no one questioned his efforts. 

They witnessed this now; John with his deft fingers as he stitched the wound closed, helping to cover Sherlock in warming blankets and barking out orders as his pulse plummeted once again. When the patient started to seize, John was ready, quickly pushing him onto his side and holding his head steady as his limbs thrashed and rattled the bed. 

His brows were only slightly furrowed as he gave new instructions to treat the new problems that had presented themselves, checking on the IV and inserting a urinary catheter. He rubbed Sherlock's extremities, eyes glued to the monitors, his mouth set in a thin line and arms perfectly steady. He watched as the team set about ridding the patient's stomach of any more water from the Thames. 

John checked on the stitches to ensure they didn't rip during the seizure and requested for broad spectrum antibiotics as soon as Sherlock's vitals had picked up. A collective sigh of relief echoed throughout the trauma room. The nurses then bustled about cleaning up and preparing to wheel the patient into the intensive care unit, during John took a moment to lay his hand on Sherlock's clammy one and whispered a few words out of earshot. 

“Stay with me, Sherlock. Please.”

John pulled off his surgical gloves with a tight snap and tossed them into the nearby bin, exhausted circles framing his eyes. Sherlock was, finally, blessedly, stable. In serious condition mind you, but stable nonetheless.

Dan sighed and wiped his forehead next to him, a questioning look in his eyes. John knew that look. “Go on.” he huffed good naturedly “take a minute, grab a coffee. I'll let the family know what's going on.” 

“Thanks John, You sure?” John nodded and Dan rushed off, presumably to gorge himself on some much needed caffeine. Which left John alone in an empty scrub room, wondering how on earth he was in this scenario _again_. 

He'd only seen the madman two weeks ago for Christ's sake, and he'd been resigned to probably never seeing him again. A part of him wondered which was better: never meeting again, or meeting like this, across IV drips and defibrillators. John knew, selfishly, that seeing Sherlock in any capacity was always going to be important to him. Soulmate or no, Sherlock had brought something into his life that had made him actually _feel_ something other than boredom and loneliness. Losing him again, maybe for good, was no longer an option. If Sherlock woke up, maybe he would stay long enough to give John the chance to explain that.

The waiting room was packed with people of all shapes and sizes, all in the same situation, all connected by the circumstances of their tense silences. John peered around the room, looking for the salt and pepper haired man he vaguely recalled seeing chase behind the bed as they had wheeled Sherlock into theatre. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Marie, you haven't seen the guy who came in with Mr Holmes have you?” John ventured at the nurses station, looking around for any sign of him. Marie smiled and looked up from her paperwork. 

“Oh, you mean Dishy McDrips on your floors? He was soaked through, poor bugger, heard he jumped in the Thames after Holmes. Last I saw he was getting some dry scrubs, a coffee, and a warming blanket, try the next corridor along.”

He spotted him after a while, nestled into a corner on a plastic chair with a silver tinfoil blanket around his shoulders and a cup of coffee rolling between his palms, and John realised quite suddenly that he had no idea what this man's name was aside from ‘Dishy McDrips on your floors’. Bit awkward, that.

“You came in with Sherlock Holmes? Dr. John Watson. Feel free to call me John.” He prompted gently, holding out a hand. The man looked up sharply and made to stand, but John stopped him with a small gesture as they shook hands.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. How is he?” 

‘ _Ah_ ,’ John realised. ‘ _Scotland Yard._ ’ 

In truth he probably shouldn't tell Greg anything at all, he wasn't related to Sherlock in any way, but there was something about the worry in his face that convinced John that they might as well have been. Lestrade had jumped into the Thames to save his life, and gave him work that allowed Sherlock to show just how brilliant he could be. No matter what, this was going to affect him. That was enough for John.

“He's in intensive care, in serious condition but stable for now. The knife missed all major internal organs and we have him stitched up, transfusing blood we speak. You should be aware that he's currently comatose. This is probably partially because of the medication he's been given but may have more to do with the prolonged period of time he spent without oxygen. I don't want to alarm you, his prospects as regards to waking up are good.” John explained, and it was bizarre to watch someone go from relieved to cautiously alert in the space of two seconds.

Clearly this man at least, was not quite so stupid as Sherlock would have everyone believe. Lestrade looked shrewdly up at him and put his coffee down. “In what sense are his prospects ’not good’ then, Dr Watson? Because it sounds like you're gearing up for one hell of a ‘but’ and I would rather just hear it straight out.” 

This was the bit he had been dreading, because saying it out loud made it that bit more real, like sharing the words with the universe somehow made them into a reality rather than a theoretical he could wish away. He cleared his throat awkwardly, running a hand through the hairs at the back of his neck. No time like the present. 

“Oxygen deprivation, to the degree Sherlock has experienced it, can have some lasting effects. It's possible that there won't be any at all, but we have to be prepared for the reality that Sherlock may experience any of a broad range of mental difficulties when he wakes up.” Lestrade paled and flopped back against the wall, mouth hanging open in some grotesque parody of words that refused to form. 

“Christ. Like what? Like, stroke level? What's the worst case scenario?” Greg babbled when his tongue finally found the ability to form shapes again. “Please. I just, I want to be prepared.” 

In all his years of practising medicine, both in hospital and in the desert battlefields of Afghanistan, there had never been a single person who was ‘prepared’ for what happened to them or their spouse, friend, brother, mate. It didn't matter how light, or how devastating an injury was. No one is ever ready. John had learned that firsthand. Still, he didn't want to leave the man imagining all the terrible twisted things one's mind does when you're waiting. That's almost worse than the injury itself ever could be. John sat on the floor next to him.

“Maybe. In all honesty we won't know until he wakes up, and even then not until the medicine clears his system. There may be some form of aphasia, loss of mental acuity, motor difficulties, short term memory loss, amnesia, difficulty with concentration… and there could also be nothing. We won't know for a while yet.” In silence the two men sat, lost in their thoughts and the sounds of the hospital slowing down as the rush shift ended and graveyard began. 

It was Greg that spoke first. “He's just a kid,” he murmured. “..a stupid kid. He makes the worst decisions in the history of the planet, but they come from a good place. He wants to help people, he just doesn't know how to show it properly, and now… His brain is what he has, it's what makes Sherlock well.. Sherlock. If he can't use it anymore… he'll be inconsolable. I don't want to even think about what he might do. All for a stupid case. The bloody _bastard_.” 

John recognised that tone a mile off. “Hey hey hey. Not your fault. He might be one of yours, but you didn't force him onto that case and you sure as hell didn't stab him and push him into a river. I've been where you're headed right now and trust me, it's not a path you want to walk down.”

Greg‘s sceptical side eye burned a hole in the side of John’s head.

“You're looking at RAMC Captain John Watson, two tours of Afghanistan. Trust me. Don't go there. He's young, there's every possibility that he'll be the same annoying dick he was before in a few weeks anyway. Right now though there's nothing anyone can do for him, or for you, so I'd recommend taking off, maybe getting some food into you.” 

Greg bit back a yawn and both men stood up, stretching weary limbs and hoping against hope that John was right. “Maybe I'll pop down to the vending machine, see what I can rustle up.”

John half smiled at him and shook his head. It was nice to find someone else who cared about Sherlock as much as he did. That widened the pool to 3 people who loved him, and Sherlock probably wasn’t aware of it. 

“Go home, keep warm, get some rest. Come back in the morning if you want, he'll probably still be under but I'll be here the whole time. Here's my number in case you need to come in after visiting hours or anything, I can only guess how strange your schedule is. I'm assuming you have contact details for Mycroft? Give him a ring, let him know the situation if you haven't already and then call a cab because sorry to say it mate, but you look wrecked. You need some serious sleep - Doctor's orders.” 

With a grateful nod Lestrade turned and disappeared down the corridor, promising to check in on Sherlock the next day. John heaved a heavy sigh in his seat, wringing his hands in worry. Now that he had enlightened Lestrade on the possible complications of Sherlock’s drowning, it occurred to him that Sherlock may not take well to once again waking up to the cold, sterile environment of a hospital room, and not forgetting that he most likely do so alone and be feeling out of sorts. Mycroft seemed unlikely to be the type to keep a bedside vigil, and Detective Inspector Lestrade has his own work and other matters to attend to. 

‘ _More to the point,_ ‘ John pondered, ‘ _what’s going to happen when he wakes up?_ '

Sherlock was a flight risk. There’s no predicting what the man would do next to get out of an unsavoury situation. Knowing from his last admission to the hospital, Sherlock tolerated the presence of a select few - alright, who was he kidding, only John was allowed to come close to actually conversing with him. He’d do all he could to help the young man, no matter whether Sherlock wanted it or not.

John got up, taking the opportunity to stretch and pop the few stiff joints in his body from earlier. With a determined air, he strode along the corridor to the nurses’ station, keeping his eye out until he spotted the man he wanted to see.

“Mike!” he called out, jogging to where his colleague was looking over a nurse’s shoulder, reading up on a patient’s admission history. Doctor Stamford turned to greet him but was nudged to a quiet corner where John squared his shoulders, expression turning grim.

“Everything alright, John?” Stamford asked, smile faltering as he read John’s tense posture.

“No, no, everything’s great.. it’s just.. You remember the kid from the other day, Sherlock Holmes, the one who OD’ed?”

His friend nodded an affirmative.

“Yeah well.. I dunno if you knew, but he was brought in a few hours ago from a drowning and laceration to the abdomen. He’s out cold yet, but if you can recall, he wasn’t the friendliest patient around and for reasons beyond me, I was the only doctor he bothered to acknowledge. I know that I’m not scheduled for ICU rounds this week, but would you mind terribly if I switched roster with you, just until Sherlock is up and discharged, at least?”

“No problem John, I’m sure you’d do what you can to spare us from his temper yeah?” Stamford chuckled. “I’m going for my dinner break in an hour, you can relieve me then. I’ll update the roster on my way out.”

“Cheers, Mike, really appreciate it,” John clapped a hand onto his friend’s shoulder, thanking him once again as they parted, with John heading upstairs to inform the nurses on his assigned floor about the change for the week.

***

For the next four days, John kept a weather eye on Sherlock, dropping by his room several times a day to check on his progress and look out for any signs that he might wake up from his catatonic state. He had yet to be released from the ICU, just so the staff could monitor him for arising infections that could stem from one falling into the not-so-clean water of the River Thames whilst harbouring an exposed knife wound. 

Lestrade visited a few times bearing nothing but a sombre expression and well wishes from the rest of Scotland Yard. During one of these visits, he even brought along a box full of what John eventually realised to be case files. 

“These have yet to be solved,” Lestrade had uttered to John with a sad smile, and then proceeded to read out the details to an unresponsive Sherlock like a father or mother would voice out stories telling of adventure and courage to a frightened child who'd just awakened from a nightmare. 

Sherlock's heart activity held steady, everything looked good, but his body showed no signs of stirring. Lestrade and John would exchange reassuring words and leave the private room to focus on anything other than the sleeping consulting detective for a few hours more.

On the fifth day, just as John was turning the corner into the corridor leading to Sherlock's room, he had spotted Mycroft Holmes closing the door, umbrella in hand. The taller man walked over, his confident stride a little weighed, the worry lines on his face a little more prominent.

“Doctor Watson,” he greeted.

“Mr Holmes,” John acknowledged.

After what felt like eons later, the elder Holmes sibling spoke up. “I thank you for your assistance in this matter, Doctor, but I must ask, what is your association with my brother?”

John did not expect that line of questioning. “What do you mean?”

“I've noticed that you've devoted yourself fully to my brother's care and recovery, well beyond what is expected of a regular physician. What is it that prompted you to do so? Do you wish to be compensated for your time, because I would gladly pass along a monetary reward-”

“Compensated-? Stop, just _stop_ right there, alright? What kind of person do you take me to be, eh, Mister Holmes?” John retorted, mouth agape in disbelief. 

“Just Mycroft will suffice-”

“Alright, Mycroft it is. Look, I am a doctor, alright, and it is my job - no, sod that - my passion, and drive to see these people leave my care healthy and whole that I am absolutely willing to do anything, _anything_ at all, to ensure that they receive the best treatment and are well looked after while they're stuck in this miserable place. I've seen patients surrounded by family almost 24/7, I've seen others who only receive as much as one visitor every other day. They all crave someone else to see them through this trying time, to keep them in line. Your brother is no different. As far as I know, you're the only family he has, and he has hinted that you're too busy with affairs of the state. Now, the only friend I think he has is that Detective Inspector Lestrade. Even he has commitments outside of Sherlock.”

“Now who does that leave?” John continued, face slowly turning red with exasperation. “The doctors and nurses here, right? But no, your brother had to be himself and scare everyone off. He didn't quite manage to chase me away though, so yes, I thought, hey, you know what, I might be his only friend while he's here, so why not make it so he only has to concern himself with the one person he actually tolerated, who’d do anything within his means to ensure Sherlock was never lonely or in want of anything? You tell me now why I can't possibly sacrifice my time to be that friend? Or are you that mistrustful of those who only wish the best for your little brother?” 

John took a deep breath and a step back before lifting his eyes to stare back at that unearthly grey, sharp gaze. He was not expecting that barrage of words to come flying out of his mouth, to be honest, but it was too late now. He wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft decided to spring another set of documents at him and send Sherlock to recuperate in the Himalayas or somewhere ridiculous. This was his last chance and he was going to fight for it. 

Instead, Mycroft Holmes let loose a curl of his lips before breaking into a smile that was not really there, but there nonetheless. “That was quite a speech, Doctor Watson. I can see now that my brother is in capable hands. I trust that you will keep me updated on his condition as and when needed. I best be off then, and thank you once again.”

John blinked once, twice, three times, and Mycroft was gone. Shaking his head in an attempt to ward off the beginnings of a headache, he pushed open the door to Sherlock's room. Inching it closed, John approached the hospital bed and pulled the nearby chair to its bedside before settling down. 

He was currently on his dinner break, but was not feeling up to eating anything. He thus had an hour to spare - instead of lazing around in the pantry, he made up his mind to visit Sherlock. Seeing that youthful, troubled face relaxed and free of tension, John’s shoulders slumped in exhaustion and before he knew what he was doing, his left hand had reached out and wrapped itself around the pale, bony hand that was resting atop the blankets. Sherlock’s skin felt smooth and chilled beneath his own calloused, warm hand, John noted.

As he sat, John listened to the rhythmic beeping of the bedside monitors and watched the steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. Mostly, he thought long and hard. What is it about this man that has captured his interest? What is it about him that has awoken that instinct in John to protect, and love? It couldn’t purely be due to the soulmate mark; John has yet to find out if Sherlock’s birthdate is reflected on his own arm.

‘ _Maybe it’s because we’re both.. lonely_ ,’ he pondered, recalling how Sherlock easily drove other people away. John was no different; something about having been prematurely cut short from military service due to his injury had severely dampened his feeling of self-worth. As much as he loved London, to be sent back home so quickly and with almost nothing - _or no-one_ \- to come home to, had left him depressed. He was lucky that St. Bart’s was still willing to take him in - on the basis that he was only allowed to undertake minor surgical operations due to the intermittent tremor in his left hand. Said tremor had mostly been absent since he met Sherlock Holmes.

John eyed his left hand - perfectly steady as it caressed Sherlock’s in minute strokes. He thought back to the question posed by the man’s elder brother earlier; what was he doing? Was he really considering this - risking everything to pursue something more with this sad, misunderstood, _incredible_ man lying comatose on the bed?

‘ _I have nothing else to lose_ ,’ John thought, sadly.

Relaxing into his chair, John gave in to his lethargy, willing his muscles to relax, and closed his eyes, visions of a brilliant smile and fond charcoal-grey eyes flashing behind his eyelids.

***

John awoke with a start. Sometime during the past hour, his head had nudged forwards on its own until it rested squarely on the bed. He raised his head, hand squeezing the one he held, and promptly froze.

Sherlock had his head turned towards him, eyes wide open and boring into John's. That gaze then jumped to their entwined hands and back again, prompting John to hesitantly relinquish his hold, his face burning with mortification at being caught. The fact that Sherlock's tubing had all been removed already suggested that this wasn't the first time he'd been caught today either. He owed whomever had left him sleep instead of mortifying him further big time.

“Oh, hey, Sherlock, glad to see you've finally woken up,” John said, an anxious squeak escaping towards the end of his greeting, trying his hardest to wipe the sleep from his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

John could see that Sherlock was struggling to speak. He turned, pouring water into a cup from the pitcher on the side table. He helped prop up a weary-looking Sherlock and brought the cup to his chapped lips. When he was done, he settled back into the pillows and fixed John with that unnerving gaze once again. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. His voice still sounded gravelly and barely audible to the point that John had to shift closer to hear him. “You're addressing me as if I'm an acquaintance instead of your patient. Do I know you, doctor?”

‘ _Wait, what?_ ’ John’s mind whirred to a stop. He tried to keep calm, but the minute quaking of his left hand gave him away. “Sherlock, you were here in this hospital not all that long ago. I was your doctor? Do you remem... Can you answer a few questions for me?”

Sherlock hummed something that sounded vaguely affirmative, his usually hyperalert eyes sluggish and searching. 

“Do you know where you are and why you're here?” John asked tentatively, his mind racing. If Sherlock's lack of recognition extended from the moment of trauma to the recent past it was unlikely that he'd be able to answer the second part of that question with any degree of confidence. There was also a time game to be played. Every doctor knew that a coma patient waking up was likely to express some form of short term memory issue - be that a memory reset every few minutes or a chunk of missing time. God was he hoping that was what was happening here.

Sherlock coughed roughly, his throat still objecting to the rough treatment it had been subjected to when he was intubated. “Well,” he croaked. “I gather that I'm in a hospital, geographically St Bart's is most logical. As for how I came to be here, there was a rather unfortunate dip in the Thames with a stab-happy murderer. Not my finest moment.”

John swallowed his rising worry and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.  
“Extraordinary as always, Sherlock. Tell me, do you have any… gaps in your memory? Any period of time in the last month or so that you can no longer recall?” They were silent as Sherlock considered this for a moment or two.

He narrowed his eyes at John and seemed to look right through him without actually seeing anything. “Hm.” 

“What?” John asked carefully, aware that he might have asked a bit much of someone who'd just come out of a coma. Sherlock shrugged one shoulder and continued to stare at him like he was a specimen in a shadowbox. 

“Its nothing really, I don't have any inexplicable holes in my memory, but you I can't seem to place. Why is that I wonder?”

John's heart sank as he spoke and it was a struggle to hold the smile on his face.  
“We'll see what happens, I'm sure it'll come back to you. In the meantime you should get some rest, give your body time to heal itself. I'll be back to check in on you soon enough.”

With that John was up and away, rushing out of the line of that penetrating stare. He felt its burn all the way out the door.

What was he supposed to do with that? Whether it had been pleasant or not, Sherlock had a history with him, one that John could recall in vivid technicolour nightmares. This was going to be his chance to apologise, to explain what had happened at Christmas and hopefully move forward, together. How could he do that now if Sherlock couldn't remember who he was? 

Of course in one way, Sherlock's apparent lack of memory meant John could make a new first impression, could rectify the mistakes he had made the first time, but he wasn't about that. Mistakes made were part of living and he was desperately trying to keep doing that. It would be taking advantage of Sherlock in the worst way and he would never do that, which left him with a dilemma:

Should he explain what had happened between them and try to jog Sherlock's memory, or should he let nature take its course and hope that it either came back to Sherlock before he decided to leave the hospital or that the same chemistry sparked between them again?

Either way he had to come to terms with the fact that his soulmate had forgotten him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll get better soon, pinky promise ;) and thank you everyone who've been following our fic, we appreciate your patience and support. 
> 
> We're just glad there's Setlock to distract ya'll from our horrendous updating schedule. Isn't slow burn fuuuuuunnn? :p


	8. Sherlock's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for the late late late update, we got really stuck with this chapter, coupled with real life commitments, but we've got the hang of things now :)

‘ _Well_ ,’ Sherlock mused as he lay alone in his room once more, ‘ _at least I'll have something to do while I'm stuck here._ ’ This Doctor Watson fellow was clearly under the impression that they were acquainted, and more than that, had such certainty in their relationship (whatever it was) that he had felt comfortable all but holding Sherlock's hand all night.

Not many people would be so willing, so unafraid of touching him. Given the evidence of John's genuine surprise that Sherlock did not recognise him, and his relative ease before realising Sherlock had no idea who he was, the improbable truth seemed to be more confusing than anything else.

After all, Sherlock was confident he would have remembered getting a boyfriend.

He had long thought himself incapable of relationships and feelings to begin with. Having a boyfriend must indicate he has felt affection and… love at some point.

Sherlock looked down at the hand that the doctor had been holding. It had felt… right, somehow, to have their hands intertwined, the doctor’s roughened fingers warmly nestled alongside his own. Beyond that, though, Sherlock couldn’t seem to ascertain if he felt anything else for the other man.

‘ _More data is needed_ ,’ he concluded, brow furrowed in uncertainty. If the two of them were indeed together, then how would Doctor Watson - _John_ , Sherlock recalls from the name tag on his coat - react to Sherlock’s apparent memory lapse? From what little he understands of human nature, it is that in situations like this, the party involved would most likely encounter a sense of disappointment. Not that Sherlock was at all unfamiliar with someone being rather disappointed by him, but usually it took a little while longer, and a bit more effort than him simply waking up. 

That being said, evidently this day had more surprises in store than he'd originally anticipated, because despite only having left a short while ago, Doctor Watson was visible just outside the room, the slit of glass in the door showing the distinctive posture of a military man in shadow across the corridor. 

_Angle of elbow suggests either coffee or a phone call. ‘Balance of probability says phone call,’_ Sherlock thinks to himself as he watches, waiting to see whether John moves his hand down again : Coffee, or does not : Call. When he doesn't move an inch, Sherlock smirks to himself. _Obvious_. At least that brief stint in the Thames hadn't damaged his mental acuity or his ability to deduce too badly. 

If he could sit up at an 87 degree angle, he might be able to get a look at the good doctor's face, see if it's Mycroft he's calling. Having big brother sweep him under some ‘private facility’ rug would be less than ideal, especially when there was something so interesting to do here. It wasn't often that a mystery, with himself at the apex, fell so willingly into his lap and he'd be damned if Mycroft sequestered him before he had the answers he desired. 

Sitting up, however, proved to be a much greater undertaking than Sherlock had originally anticipated. “Oh.” He groaned, biting his tongue as he registered the fiery stretch of a wound recently stitched together protesting explosively at his ministrations. 

“Did you forget the part about being stabbed as well?” John asked, dipping his head inside the door. Sherlock cursed himself. He hadn't even noticed the man move. “Because if you did, moving was probably the fastest but least enjoyable way to remember.” John smiled wryly down at him, slipping his phone into the pocket of his coat as he moved to get Sherlock's chart from the end of his bed. 

The mobile seemed… familiar. Sherlock could see the bottom of it jutting out, tiny scratch marks dotting the charging port, and dove into his mind palace, searching for why on earth he was so sure that he'd encountered the bottom of that phone before, when a throbbing pain in his temple dragged him back to reality. 

“Sherlock? I said is it OK if I take a look at your stitches?”John asked, concern lacing his tone. 

“Be my guest,” Sherlock said, easing himself back onto the bed, his mind already far away. He watched with mild interest as the doctor exposed his upper torso, gently palpating the area around the bandage, prompting a few pained winces from the patient. 

“There's mild swelling but it should go down in a bit,” John reported, moving closer to inspect the wound, at the same time gesturing for a nurse to come over from where she had materialised at the door. She came forward bearing a tray on which there lay the materials needed to change the bandage. 

It occurred to Sherlock then that very rarely did doctors do minor tasks such as the replacement of bandages - minor procedures like these can be left to the nurses.

“I can do it, Doctor Watson, you should go have a cuppa, you're on your break after all,” the nurse - _Mary_ , he recalled, surprisingly - offered, her smile a bit too wide, her body almost fully pressed against the doctor's side and voice unashamedly presenting in a purr-like manner. 

“Thanks, but it's alright Mary, there's some things I need to settle with Mr Holmes here for a while. Just leave them there would you?” John said with a small smile, already turning his attention to removing the bloodied gauze with care.

Sherlock barely caught the small pout the nurse shot John’s way before the tray was placed at the bedside table and the door closed behind her. He frowned as he registered a niggling feeling in his head. 

Sherlock watched the doctor's face carefully. “Girlfriend?” he blurted without meaning to. 

“What? God, no! She's lovely, she is, but-” John cut off, eyes darting to Sherlock's and back, cheeks reddening. “I.. There’s someone else, erm-”

“She seems to think otherwise.”

John sighed. “I know.”

“But?” Sherlock prompted.

“It’s complicated,” John muttered, shoulders slumping ever minutely. “He- god, just forget it.”

Sherlock kept quiet as the doctor cleaned the wound site and prepared to apply the fresh bandage. He took a moment to ponder over John's words. 

He was more confused than ever. Did this mean they weren't.. boyfriends, then? What did John mean by “complicated”? And why did it seem like he hasn't bothered to properly reject Mary's flirtations? It was as if he did want to rule out Mary as a romantic interest, due to..? 

His gaze flicking back to the blonde man in front of him, Sherlock could see that there was something weighing heavily on John’s mind, and that somehow Sherlock was involved.

_'Insecurities when it comes to relationships, attributed by.. Ah. Unstable childhood, estranged father and… overdependent older sibling, alcohol being the major problem. Craves normality and affection. Previous relationships did not last more than a few months; all broken off by the other party for reasons hard to ascertain. Has given up dating entirely, possibly entertaining the absurd idea of a soulmate-'_ Sherlock’s silent deductions came to a halt.

He did not believe in soulmates, that two people could truly be compatible. Instead he believed that emotional attachments represent nothing but a burden, an irrational compulsive need to put someone else’s happiness ahead of his own. Sherlock was well aware of the success rates of marriage between proven soulmates - the numbers were not the least bit encouraging.

There was no such thing as a flawless system. People changed eventually; one moment you could be on cloud nine, basking in newfound love, and the next, dark secrets surface, threatening to rip couples apart. He may be clueless when it came to relationships, but Sherlock understood enough that even the most strong-willed of people have their respective breaking points.

' _Has John found his potential soulmate?_ ' Sherlock wondered. ' _If so, why does he appear conflicted about it?_ '

“There you go. Take care not to move too much, mind you,” John said, gathering the remnants of the bandage and standing up, getting ready to leave. “There’s only so much morphine I’m allowed to give you, you know.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at this. Clearly John was hyper-aware of Sherlock’s history with drugs. 

He had a retort ready when he spotted them - the numbers just barely visible under the doctor’s rolled sleeve at his forearm. He could only see four out of the six, but they were unmistakably there: _-0185_.

Sherlock snapped to full attention, his mind supplying him with facts about the soulmate mark that he had grudgingly picked up along the years and threw aside as useless. Yes, he was aware that the mark simply represented the birth date of your intended, but what was the possibility of seeing his birth month _and_ year on John Watson’s arm?

“Wait,” Sherlock said, catching himself before he could grab the doctor by his sleeve. “I don’t have my phone with me here. May I borrow yours? Need to text.”

The doctor’s hand hovered over the mobile in his pocket for two seconds longer than it should before he pulled it out and placed it in Sherlock’s outstretched hand. “Yeah.. here. Your phone is probably at the bottom of the Thames, somewhere,” he laughed, more of a nervous chuckle.

Sherlock took it, giving it a quick once-over before swiftly pulling up the messaging application, his fingers flying over the keypad. He definitely has seen those scuff marks on the bottom of the phone before. “A gift from your brother, this.”

“Sister, actually.”

Sherlock locked eyes with the doctor once more, handing the phone back, trying to make sense of the grin on John’s face. He looked.. Relieved, somewhat, and the tension in his shoulders have eased off quite a bit. “You were invalided from the army. Gunshot wound to the shoulder that made you a liability.”

“Yes.”

The numbers on his forearm were still there, clear as day. Sherlock squinted at them, trying to see the important remaining two numbers. John cleared his throat, quickly moving away out of Sherlock’s reach. “Right. Get some rest, Sherlock.”

Curious.

In the three seconds it took for the doctor to walk over and pull open the door, Sherlock tried to make sense of the tension between the two of them. What was it about the older man that has him so intrigued? What was it about John that made Sherlock want to crawl under his skin and learn every single inch of him?

And, God, did Sherlock _want_.

This train of thought terrified him, watching pensively as John Watson walked out the door.

***

Much to his Sherlock's disappointment, John did not once check up on him the next day, nor the day after.

In fact, if anything Sherlock would venture that John was going out of his way to avoid seeing him, because it was blatantly apparent from Stamford’s pointed sighs as he did his new rounds that John had gone so far as to switch rounds just to maintain a relative distance. It was as if he knew that, whatever it was that was going on, Sherlock was close to figuring it out. 

Which he was, in a manner of speaking.

He’d have it tied up already if it wasn’t for John’s refusal to let him, and the limited mobility one experiences after being stabbed and half drowned. If he could have gotten up for longer than it took to go to the bathroom without feeling like he was going to burst a lung, Sherlock would have been in John’s business until he got answers, but that wasn’t happening. 

In a somewhat surprising development, however, he hadn’t died of boredom just yet in spite of the hellish reality of his daily routine in the hospital.

“Well? Any ideas?” Lestrade asked from his perch on the chair at Sherlock’s elbow. A steady stream of cold cases courtesy of The Yard had given both of them something to do. 

Lestrade had, in what seemed to Sherlock like a fit of insanity, decided to spend his day off at his bedside. His willingness to subject himself to the stench and poor lumbar support on offer baffled, but Sherlock was not one to look a crime horse in the mouth. Even if said crime horse was voluntarily wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms.

“Several.” Sherlock replied absentmindedly, leafing through the crime scene photos of what was clearly a B&E gone awry that had been filed away as a gangland crime. Lestrade sighed and took a generous sip of coffee. 

“Care to share?” 

Sherlock smirked and tossed the sheaf of papers into his lap. “Firstly, whomever it was that took these needs to have their IQ tested.” 

Lestrade groaned and rolled his eyes. “Can we get to the bit where you just tell me what happened?” he complained fondly, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“We can, but it takes all the fun out of it. Clearly this was a failed attempt at breaking and entering - just look at the state of the window latch in the kitchen. Mr. Thompson must have come home earlier than expected and in a fit of panic, the brother --”

“Br’r?” 

Sherlock spun the photo he was looking at around so Lestrade could see the small series of family photographs that were hung on the walls in the background. “Yes, the brother. Used the antique ivory tusk as a sort of harpoon if my calculations are correct. He should still be reachable at his home address where he more than likely has both the tusk and the DNA on it so if you’d like to, perhaps, arrest him ?”

Lestrade chuckled and began reorganizing the sheafs of paper that had spread across the room as they worked. “Alright, alright, I’ll go. Tell John thanks for the call would you? Despite what you’d like to think, I’m glad he called, even if it _is_ my day off. I’ll let Dimmock know what you figured out, might pop back here tomorrow at some stage if I get the chance, let you know how it all went - after all your phone is banjaxed.” He waited a few moments for the usual scathing-yet-witty reply, but when none came Greg simply shrugged his coat on and left with a promise to keep him up to date on the investigation.

A sharp pain rattled through Sherlock’s skull, reverberating against his teeth like a gong.   
‘ _The phone call was to Lestrade._ ’ He wracked his brain, trying to alleviate the growing pressure he felt there. ‘ _The obvious familiarity. The avoidance. The numbers._ ’ 

Little snippets of evidence of something whirled around the mind palace, fighting for his attention, fighting to form a coherent stream of thought. Somehow, John Watson had known him, had known to call Lestrade when he awoke and, not, presumably, Mycroft who was listed as his next of kin, and had yet to show his face. He had seemed relieved to hear Sherlock’s incorrect deduction about his sister, like he had heard it all before, and yet when Sherlock had broached other personal topics he had become more standoffish. 

The solution, though it drifted along the edges of his consciousness, remained elusive. There was, therefore, only one option: He would have to ask John outright.

That, of course, posed its own problems. To what extent would John be willing, be able even, to tell him the truth? After all, Sherlock, while he was certain that they had some form of prior relationship, could not be sure if it was positive or negative, and for which of them it was either positive or negative. Who had decided that they wouldn’t associate? If it had been John… the likelihood of him giving a version of events untarnished by his own bias against Sherlock, over past behaviour he couldn’t even remember, was very slim.

On the other hand, if Sherlock himself had been the one to insist on their separation, he was certain to have had an unimpeachable reason. After all, if John was so intriguing to him, and he really was utterly captivating, Sherlock couldn’t imagine anything but the direst of circumstances convincing him to delete the man from his head altogether. 

There was one small, easily ignored part of him that didn’t really want to know. For now, John was a wonderfully diverting enigma, a crackable puzzle that came in an unexpectedly aesthetically pleasing package. Although Sherlock didn’t quite buy into the idea of all that soulmates nonsense, he couldn’t help but admit to a startling level of… abdominal _fluttering_ when he considered that John’s mark, the portion of it that he had managed to see at least, matched his own birthdate. For once he understood the mindframe of the general populace. In this scenario, part of him was convinced that ignorance was bliss.

But he wasn’t in the business of leaving questions unanswered, and even if the truth was going to upset this strange sense of kinship, the equilibrium of the ignorant wasn’t worth it to him. For better or for worse, this case ended now.

Well, whenever John finished his shift, which left Sherlock ample time to plan his next move carefully. Caution, after all, was a skill he _could_ actually exercise if he so chose.

****

It was hours, or maybe minutes, Sherlock wasn’t keeping track, before his door opened and John entered. He watched as John puttered about, looking at his chart and the monitors with a critical eye, relaxing in increments, slowly shrugging off the weight of the day as he went through these, his last charts of the shift.

Sherlock almost felt bad about having to take the hard line in his approach, he had intended to go for something a bit more delicate, but the headache that had been plaguing him all day was starting to really grate, and combined with his inability to solve this, the case of John Watson, he wasn’t exactly feeling up to trying to disseminate.

Which was probably why John almost leapt out of his skin when he spoke.

“What happened between us the last time I was here John?” Sherlock asked without preamble, staring intently up at John, who shuffled awkwardly for a moment before sighing.

“Look… Sherlock…”

But Sherlock simply held up a hand. “No. Something happened, that much is obvious, and I’m certain that it was important. You’ve been avoiding me, and yet checking in at every opportunity. You almost ran out of here the last time we spoke, but you called Lestrade to keep my mind busy, something you would only have known to do if we had talked about it before. Even now,” he ran his eyes over John, noting the nervous tugging down of his sleeve, the way his eyes were drifting from Sherlock’s own to his lips, his arm, and back again. “You’re practically screaming it at me. So, sit there, and tell me. Everything, John. I’ll know if you don’t.” 

For a fleeting moment, he’s sure that some unspoken line has been crossed.

The chair John pulls up to his bedside seems to suggest otherwise, and as he opens his mouth to speak, Sherlock’s heart beats a staccato rhythm in his chest. This was it.

“I guess the place to start is--”


End file.
